“Mommy, can I lick my train?” Daniel asked me as he held up one of his Thomas engines.
“No, don’t lick your train buddy.”
“Can I lick my hand?”
“No, don’t lick your hand, who knows what your hands have been touching.” I told him, thinking of dirty dog toys, dirt, grass, boogers, etc.
“My penis.” He told me matter of factly.
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Copyright 2013 Sheri Thomson