We are sitting at the dinner table as The Boss forks pork chop and peas into her mouth with agonizing slowness. She talks more than she eats, a fact that stretches out dinnertime by a good hour on a nightly basis. She chews, she swallows, and she licks the residue from the corners of her mouth. Then she speaks.
"Why don't men have milk in their boobs?"
The Partner and I grin at each other from where we sit before The Boss. I remain mute long enough to indicate that he's going to have to take this one.
"Because men aren't designed to have babies and feed them. But women are."
The Boss nods her understanding. The up-and-down shake of her head is deliberate. Her mind processes information the same way her back teeth grind down pork to a swallowable squish--with the utmost thoroughness. But she's still only three years old. There are some concepts that elude her. She doesn't know about time, for instance: how fast it goes, and that it stops for no one.
"When I grow older and my boobs get bigger," she says, "I can feed my brother."