You Don't Want to Know

Because Jane makes me feel bad about wearing comfy but crappy bras, I keep buying new ones recommended to me by lingerie salesladies. They always fit in the store, but after a washing or two, they twist and distort and they HURT. So, more often than not, I end up giving up halfway through the evening and taking my bra off wherever I am.

That is the prologue to the conversation I am about to relate, between myself and Em on our way home from school today. (Keep in mind that both of us laughed and giggled throughout this entire exchange; otherwise, I'd have to write, "she giggled," and "I laughed" after every identifier, and it would get dull.)

Em: Hey, Mom, I found your bra on the coffee table this morning.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Em: Yeah, I was thinkin', 'ooooh, what were YOU doing last night?'

Me: Uh, Em? Lemme give you some advice before you go any further. Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to. You're 10 years old. I'm betting you would be more embarrassed if I gave you the answer you're looking for than I could ever be.

Em: Yeah, but I was thinking, its was almost your anniversary, you guys were watching a movie, the lights were low, there was romantic music...

Me: Em! Let me say this again. You DON'T want to ask questions about stuff that will embarrass you way more than it would embarrass me.

Em: But..

Me: OK, fine. You want to know? You're right. Daddy and I did it, on the couch, right where you always sit. And we left my bra on the table as a clue.

Em, bright red: Really?

Me: No, of course not. My bra was bothering me, and I took it off. But you asked...

Em, still giggling: Don't tell Daddy about this conversation, OK?

Me: Are you kidding? Is the first thing I'm going to tell him when I get home. You'll be lucky if I don't blog about it.

Poor, unlucky Em.