We go on a walk before bed nearly every night. It tires out the kids and the dog is happier too. We do a loop around the hills and we usually use the same route.
A few blocks down there is a house that absolutely reeks of marijuana. Not in the daily smoker sort of way. In the contact-buzz-just-by-walking-past-the-house sort of way. Even when nobody is home. Maybe they are growers, who knows. I’m in California. Nobody cares.
Anyway, so Crappy Papa and I have laughed about it a few times because inevitably, one of the kids will say they smell a skunk when we are nearing that particular part of the hill. On every walk. Over and over. “Hey, I smell a skunk!”
Finally, Crappy Boy notices a pattern:
I’m stalling with my usual, “Well…”
I start to explain that the smell might come from a particular type of plant.
That is answering the question honestly without going into further details. This is how I handle questions surrounding topics like sex and drugs and rock and roll. Answer the question that was asked. Then shut up.
But before I can say anything, he answers his own question:
Then he gets really excited about prospective skunk ownership.
He jumps up and down and asks, “COULD WE GET ONE, MAMA?!?”
He then suggests that I knock on their door and ask if I can buy one of their skunks.
For a pet.
“No honey, we can’t get a skunk. They’re illegal here.”
*It’s true, skunks really ARE illegal in California. You can’t even get a prescription for one.
Later I did tell them that it isn’t likely that they raise skunks. Mostly because I was sweating the potential for us to run into the guy who lives there and having my kids yell, “Hey, do you raise skunks? Can we have a skunk?” Actually wait. That would have been funny.