The four year old: I know where babies come from.
Me: Oooh. Do you want to tell me?
They come from a big white house.
[Perplexed] Er. Oh. Ok. [Then clarity] Oh! I see. You mean the hospital?
No. I don’t mean the hospital. I mean a very very tall, skinny white house.
[More perplexed] Erm. Ok. [But going with it]. And how do the babies go in and out of the big white house?
They come out of a machine.
[Silence, while we both ponder this.]
I think all humans came out of a machine mummy.
Erm. Sweetheart, do you remember that book about where babies come from? Can you remember a machine in that?
No, Mummy. But I think I came out of a machine.
[Silence, while I wonder where I put that book]
If all the humans came out of a machine, who opened the door?
[big silence while we both ponder ‘the door’, metaphorical or otherwise, whether life is just one long production line, whether or not humans are sometimes trapped forever behind the door and, if so, who decides who comes and goes, and how did the door ever got opened. I say ‘both pondered’ – perhaps it was just me. I’m pretty sure the 4 year old had moved onto watching raindrops race down the passenger seat window].
The four year old: Mummy? Well? Who opened it?
Me: Let’s go and find that book.