Recently, my five-year-old son and I were driving home after picking up a delicious taco dinner at Chipotle. Eric was mid-sentence in what had to be the longest discussion about Australian predators I’ve ever been a part of, when he turned the conversation on a dime, as they say.

In an instant, we switched gears from Australian crocodiles that will eat your head, to Chuck E. Cheese, to a brief stop at ultrasounds, and eventually reaching our final destination – an entirely uncomfortable discussion about lady bits.

I swear, the following snippet of conversation originated from a discussion about Eric’s upcoming birthday celebration at Chuck E. Cheese. Had I known that a discussion about female anatomy was going to ensue, I’d have, well, I dunno, wrecked the car or something first.

You see, the resident five-year-old, as I like to call him, is soon to be the resident six-year-old. Somehow—possibly vis-à-vis the distinct hatred of Chuck E. Cheese shared by my wife and me—Eric has never been there. As we were driving along the main drag in town, passing the local Chuck E. Cheese, Eric suddenly started rambling about how cool the games at Chuck E. Cheese were and how much fun he was going to have there on his birthday.

I said something along the lines of “how do you know that the games there are fun given that you’ve never been there?” He immediately turned it on me and said: “How do you know they’re not fun if you’ve never been there?” [Have I mentioned that I am fairly positive this kid has a brilliant future in litigation? Hopefully, it’s on the adjudication side of things, and you know, not while wearing an orange jumpsuit.]

That’s when I rocked his little world and informed him that I’ve been to Chuck E. Cheese several times with my older daughter. At that point, the conversation turned to how was it even possible that I was alive before him, that I had another kid before him, and that by God, just why in tarnation had I gone to Chuck E. Cheese without him.

Sidebar: As most of you know, Chuck E. Cheese is quite possibly the most Hellish place on earth, complete with awful games, hundreds of children running around like wild animals, and the world’s worst pizza. Really, it’s an insult to the pizza you get from a convenience store at 2 a.m. on a Saturday after a pub crawl. It’s an insult to bread. And tomatoes. And Italy.

But, I digress.

Eventually, we arrived at the time in which he was still in mama’s belly, and my daughter was eight years old. We talked about his ultrasound pictures, and how he thinks it’s funny that you can see his butt in the image.

Then, everything just went to hell in a handcart, as my Grandma Kughen used to say.

Eric: How did I come out of mama’s belly?
Me: Well, through an opening called a vagina. [Thinking that I’d be clinical, brief and dismissive.]
Eric: Where is that?
Me: Down between mama’s legs. [Well, being clinical, brief and dismissive went right into the toilet.]
Eric: Can you see it?
Me: Not unless mama has her clothes off. [God, please wreck the car.]
Eric: Is it like a scar waiting to be stitched?
Me: Um, no. [Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh. My. Freaking. God.]
Eric: Is it just always hanging open?
Me: Uhhhhh, no. [Lord, take me now]
Eric: [silence]
Me: [silence]

Thankfully, it was dark and because Eric was sitting behind me, he couldn’t see my face. Had he been able to see it, I am sure it was a mixture of pain, morbid amusement and pure fear. Seriously, I considered just leaping from the moving vehicle.

We rode in absolute silence for a solid two minutes, the only sound being Ryan Adams crooning about some nameless woman who had stepped on his heart.

I think both of us realized that this conversation had gone as far as it was going to go. I think perhaps he had a little more information in his head than he really wanted. And I know I had shared way more about the anatomical design of the female body than I’d planned to on this random Tuesday.

As if I had another reason to hate Chuck E. Cheese.

Note: I sought and received permission from my lovely bride—whose lady parts were the focal point of the aforementioned incident—prior to publication of this post. I’m a good husband like that.