I spent the better part of my weekdays with a precocious 2.5-year-old who often comes up with profound existential insights that have me thinking, "Where the hell did that come from?"

To counter the last statement, we also engage in a bit of the scatalogical, body function humor from time to time. Nothing too scandalous I assure you. I'm a pretty damn good caregiver, if I do say so myself.

But this afternoon, I was pooped. As was she. And so when the point came in the CD we were listening to where she grabs her blanky and lies on the floor and sucks her thumb, I too lay on the floor. Her baby sister decided to crawl on top of me and while I was trying to meet both their needs I had the following exchange with P, the 2.5-year-old. (trying my best to be discrete here)

B: Um. Whatcha doing?

P: I'm rubbing your belly

P: But that's not my belly, P. It's my boobs.

P: Oh, I wanna rub your boobs. (she says as she pats them)

B: Well, we don't do that, P. (I'm saying as I get up and have visions of being interrogated under false pretenses on The View  like Sandra Bullock was tricked into being on a talk show in that really bad Harry Connick Jr. flic where she finds out her hubby was cheating on her in front of millions)

P: Why don't we do that?

B: We can touch our own bodies, but not other peoples.

P: Oh. Well daddy has boobs?

B No, daddy has a chest. Mommy has boobs.

P: Why?

B: Well, they helped feed you as a baby. Remember?

P: Yeah. So. Beth, why do you have boobs?

B: Um, for rubbing. K. 'Nuf of the anatomy lesson for today. Let's go play trucks.

P: Beth, what's anatomy?