So this morning I was helping Elvis make a fried egg, when Princess Zurg asked me how the farmers knew which eggs didn’t have baby chicks in them.  This led to a discussion of the intricacies of egg farming and the proclivities of roosters, which led in turn to a discussion of human ovulation, menstruation and, eventually, sexual reproduction. 

The good news:  That big talk I was so afraid of?  Awkward.  But not horrible.  And, most importantly, over.

The bad news:  Top shelf of the fridge?  Bad, bad place to store eggs.  Especially when it’s the same shelf holding the milk, which your four-year-old needs to make chocolate milk while you’re telling his sister about the birds and the bees. 

Which just goes to show that you can’t have a sex talk without making a few omelets.  Or in our case, French toast.  (It seemed appropriate.)

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