Right. So the other day Jackson is pulling everything out from under the bathroom sink. I'm relatively sure there's nothing dangerous under there, but just in case I poke my head in and say, "Um, don't open any bottles and drink what's inside, okay? Whatever it is will hurt your tummy and taste terrible." Jackson holds up a bottle of nail polish remover. "Like that." "Okay, mom," he says, and goes back to his rifling. When I come back five minutes later he's zipped open my old travel kit with the blue and white stripes that Jack always hated, and he's got five tampons lined up in front of him on the bath mat -- two with the pink line around them, two with the green, and one fatty with the yellow.
"You're very organized," I say.
"These are my bullets," he says.
"What kind of gun do you use for those?" I ask.
"You shoot them out of YOUR BUTT!" he shouts.
I've explained a little about women and blood and so forth, so he has a sense of a tampon's purpose.
Then he has a new idea. "Can I put one of these in me?"
"No," I say. "You're a boy. And they don't go in your butt. Exit only." I don't want to go any deeper than that.
"Whatever, mom," he says, unwrapping one.
We have guests over, a pregnant friend and her husband here to pick up our old changing table and take it with them to L.A. The husband sees Jackson playing with the tampons and says, "Hey! Didja ever put one of those in water? It's really cool!"
There's no better time to start developing a proclivity.
Later I fill up a cup of water and let Jackson dunk one in. As predicted, it swells up impressively. Unfortunately, the temptation to grab the string and swing it around the bathroom leaving a spiral of water on the walls is too strong for either of us to resist.
It's also fun to squeeze out all the water. Your fingers leave big dents in the cotton.
My name is Mrs. Kennedy and I play with tampons.