We're naming the baby over here today, for those who are interested.
I have exactly one pair of non-maternity pants that are not unbuttonably too small and exactly one pair of maternity pants that are not fall to my ankles-ly too big. So, I alternate, and naturally both pairs are always covered in peanut butter and toddler snot. The problem is that neither pair are capable of remaining in a remotely appropriate or modest location and I spend all day trying to remember to hike them northward before I frighten any children that may be in the area. It means that the entire population of the DC Metro area gets a daily status update on the precise nature and color of my underwear. I've been feeling bad that you are all left out of this excitement, so I'll just clue you in that today is a white thong. There, now you feel like part of the club.
This type of classy behavior may be what led to the conversation we had at dinner the other night.
Mia: Mia baby.
Me: No, Mia is a little girl.
Mia: Mia little girl. Dada little girl.
Me: No, Dada is a big boy.
Mia: Mama big boy.
Chris: No, Mama is a MILF.
Great thing to be teaching our kid, no?