The word smug has been in my mind the last few days.
Last night as my husband and I are leaving the house, my youngest son says the following to us.
“Oh you are going to the meeting at school? The one about sex? Of course I know what sex is. (sigh) Mom. Sex is how you make a baby,” my eight year old said smugly.
It is in fact the time of year where the school my boys attend has a sexuality educator come and talk to students in 5th through 8th grade. My youngest is in 3rd grade. The sex educator doesn’t talk to him, and we haven’t had the talk with him yet. But apparently, he knows it all.
“So how do you know all this?”
“My brothers,” he said smugly.
His brothers, sitting in the same room, become intensely interested in their fingernails.
Just three days ago, I was with a group of women who also have third graders. One of them also has a son who went through the sex ed last year with my oldest son. She was lamenting how her older son had taken the information he so newly acquired and immediately told his younger brother everything.
“Well, I made it very clear that my older boys were not to share any of the sex education information with their younger brother. It’s our job as parents to talk to him about this, not theirs,” I said smugly.
I don't like to be smug. Sometimes I can’t help myself, but it always backfires. Somehow I always get knocked back down to earth. I just hate when it’s my own kid.