It's probably not normal, but we talk about genes and DNA and genetics all the time at our house. It is not an uncommon topic at the dinner table: (Eliza) "I have brown eyes, just like my Dad." (Gabba) "Mine were blue when I was little, but now they're green, like Aunt McKay." (Me) "That's just like me." And then we go into the discussion...how they got the eye-color they have, which of their aunts and uncles match them [after all, our kids have 30 aunts and uncles], and which of their grandparents and great-grandparents contributed what to the Genetic Grab Bag.

Of course, explaining DNA to a three-year-old and a five-year-old is tricky. Here's how I explained it to my wee folk: it's like a recipe for your body. Daddy and I both have a recipe, which we got from our parents. And Heavenly Father takes both Daddy's and my recipe, mixes it together, and that ends up being you! You have Daddy's eye color, but my eyebrows. You have a Pipkin head, but a Mason nose and Galbraith ears. I have crooked pinkies, that I got from my mother, but yours are straight, like your Dad's. This recipe that is yours is called your DNA, or your genes.

[yeah, and it's an easy guess where they get their flair for the flamboyant!]

Well, I thought I was pretty clever, coming up with that. It included all the relevant points, without going into anything...awkward. All the children seemed to get it. They've all helped me cook, so they could see how different ingredients help make the cake, right?

So, here's where it backfired: Yesterday, we were making lunch in the kitchen. Out of nowhere, Lucy pipes up and says, "Mommy, you need to kiss Daddy and get some DNA and make another baby."

!!?!!?!!?!!?!!

That sounds just a little TOO accurate. And now I'm left to wonder: Just exactly how much does she know?