While I prepared lunch for my son today, he patiently drew pictures at the kitchen table. He also provided the entertainment by performing his one-man show where he tells me a great story, often impressing me with his vocabulary and unique retelling of a classic tale with his little tike twist.
Today's narrative was very loosely based on Little Red Riding Hood. As I slathered peanut butter on bread listening to the lengthy monologue, I nearly choked on the knife I was licking when my son said something about "a different virgin."
"What was that?" my voice squeaked.
"I'm doing a different virgin," he said.
As I forced back initial laughter and then a fainting spell, I asked my sweet just-turned-four-year-old, "You're doing a different (gulp) virgin?" My head raced. . . WHERE IN THE WORLD DID HE HEAR THAT WORD?!? WHAT DID MY HUSBAND LET THE KIDS WATCH?!? OH, NO! WILL I HAVE TO EXPLAIN WHAT IT IS RIGHT NOW?!?
"Yes, I'm telling a different virgin about the wolf," he piped up with a duh-mom look.
"Oooooohhhhhhh. Okay. (I am now breathing again.) You are telling a different v-e-r-s-i-o-n of the story," I sounded out.
"Yeah, veeeeeersion," he repeated.
"Oh, great. I love your veeeerrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiioooooooonnnnnnnnssssssssss of stories. Please tell me the rest." I paused for a huge sigh of relief.
I turned away to finish making lunch and listen intently to the rest of the story, very thankful that both the wolf and my son's innocence remained--at least until Cinderella shows up. And by then, I am hopeful that we will have told enough stories between us that he will pick the right version.