Conversations. Again.

So I'm talking to my dad on the phone and trying to not give anything away to the nearly four-year-old sprite in the room, since it's her upcoming birthday we're talking about.

At the same time, I'm trying to figure out when I might actually expect my parents at my house (they are apparently stuck until my sister, brother-in-law and cousin return) and get the kids dressed. Large Fry is dressed, but I had to send her to the potty because of the pee-pee dance she was doing, so I switched to getting Medium Fry dressed rather than doing Large Fry's hair.

As I'm trying to talk to Dad, I get Medium's diaper changed and shorts on. Before I can get her shirt on, she taps her chest on the left. "A freckle!"

I look. "No, honey, that's not a freckle."

"A freckle?"

"No, that's not a freckle."

"A freckle." She sounds determined now.

"No, Medium Fry. That's not a freckle."

She points to her twin, who is still in her nightie. "Small Fry's freckle?"

"No, Small Fry doesn't have a freckle there either."

"Large Fry's freckle?"

"No, Large Fry doesn't have a freckle there either."

By now, Dad is chuckling, just from hearing my side of the conversation. (Although, my BlackBerry carries sound really well, and Medium was close enough, so he probably caught most of it.) "Well, what IS it, Auntie J? Why don't you tell them?"

I tell Medium Fry once again that it's NOT a freckle. Neither is the matching spot on the other side of her chest.

"Because," I say to Dad, " I don't want them to know that word just yet!"

"Oh," he says, with a chuckle. He takes about two more seconds to think, and as it sinks in, he says, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" before breaking out into a full laugh.

Yeah. That "freckle," Dad.