My husband is sitting on the floor, putting together our new office chair. This new chair reclines slightly, spins, and moves on wheels.
My children think it’s the greatest thing they have ever seen.
My son inspects my husband’s craftsmanship and pores over the instructions. “Who is Allen? And why is his wrench so important?” he ponders out loud.
Eden dances around the partially built chair, cavorting as only a five year old can, shouting, “Wenches! I love wenches! Wenches! Wenches! Wenches!”
Eden’s older sister corrects her. “You mean wrrrrenches,” Trinity explains, enunciating the ‘r’ sound. She then turns to me and asks, “Mom, what exactly is a wench?”
“Well,” I hedge as I rapidly think of a way to explain this word to a nine year old. “A wench is slang for a sort of……loose woman.”
Trinity stares at me in even greater bewilderment.
I try again. Even more awkwardly. “Okay, it’s like the women who hang out in saloons….and stuff…” My voice trails off, hoping she’ll lose interest in the subject. She doesn’t.
“You mean, drunk ladies?” she probes further.
“Sort of. Sometimes, maybe.” I answer vaguely. “They date pirates.”
My husband has finished putting together the chair and all conversation ceases as the children scramble and elbow each other out of the way, in order to be the first one to sit in it.
Fifteen minutes later my son has been banned for life from ever touching the new chair, Trinity has forgotten her quest for a larger vocabulary, and Eden is crooning to her new pet Allen wrench that is held lovingly in her tiny hand.
Just your average, run of the mill Monday night at our house.