The Dog Ate my Underpants

"Talk about the dog who eats underpants Dada."

We're driving home from church on a Sunday morning, blue skies, snow threatening too early in the season. A week ago our minister, a wonderful poet, had talked about the differences between the world we tell our children about and the one that we live in. It was a message full of both sweetness and the kind of insight that we've grown used to from this wonderful man, who was a shepherd before he became our minister and who herds us along with kind, persistent passion.

We've been squabbling at our church over how to handle the children--what kinds of stories to tell them or not tell them, whether or not to pay the good people who spend time with them, that sort of thing. There hasn't been any hair pulling. Yet. But it hasn't been pretty. And our minister was gently pointing out that, just maybe, we weren't modeling the kind of behavior we were expecting of our 2-, 3- and 4-year-olds. Oops.

There should be an orderly progression for introducing kids to the adult world: potty, snack-time, team sports, Britney, cross-dressing, marriage, 401k plans, afterlife. Something like that. Instead, it just comes up. In the car, on the changing table. Whenever something is offered by the brain of our little Lilly and the world around her.

So when she says, "Talk about the dog who eats underpants," we're off and running. We've talked about the cake-eating bear on our porch (true) and the dog and the bear in our bed (not true) but this is the first I've heard of the bear who eats underpants. My wife is right with her though. "Well, sometimes dogs like to eat underpants," she says. Lilly's brother dozes in the car seat next to her. The world outside our windows is frozen with a skim of snow. Orderly, recognizable New England.

"Again Mama. Talk about the dog that eats underpants."

"Well," her mother says, "Mama had two dogs, and both of them ate her underpants. One of them was named Sandy and one of them was named Katy."
"Your dogs ate your underpants?" I mean to use playful Dad-speak but I miss.
"Some dogs LOVE underpants," Mama says. To this our daughter gives a satisfied sigh.
"Wait," I say, "Dada had a dog named Cody and a dog named Aran and a dog named Nikki and those dogs never ate his underpants."
This is the point that I start thinking about Steven's sermon, and the orderly progression of adult-themed challenges that isn't. Really I just notice a clenching near my solar plexus.
"Wait, dogs really do eat underpants?" I ask.
"Well, dogs don't like EVERYBODY'S underpants," Momma says.
Then she looks at me. "You're actually uncomfortable."
My brain says: "No, I'm, well, I don't want to be, I'm pretty good at mediating between the kid and adult worlds, she's only 2....I...I"
My mouth says: "I'm just not sure we should be talking about this."
"You're really uncomfortable."

My brain feels all crampy, like that old Dodge Dart our neighbor owned growing up that never wanted to start in the winter. Some days, he'd sit there in the dark and crank it for 5 or 10 minutes. But every once in a while he'd let out the break, glide it down the hill in front of our house and pop the clutch. Off he'd go.

Maybe if we could just get out of the way and let life unfold things would take care of themselves. And none of us would have to feel that crampy thing in our brains.

There's a little more snow up around the corner by the country store with the plastic cow on the roof. We decide to stop into for a morning bagel and coffee. Lilly is still trying to puzzle it all out.

"Talk about the dog who eats underpants Mama," Lilly says.

I'm still not ready for pop-the-clutch-and-go parenting but my wife is right with her. "Well, there was a dog and a bear in our bed one morning," she says. "And the bear was wearing underpants...."