We are sitting in a local Subway, splitting a sandwich and chatting. Youngest loves being the only one out with one of his parents. He gets to talk non-stop, uninterrupted by the non-stop eye rolling and frequent heaping of ridicule done by his siblings in reaction to whatever his topic of conversation is. [More often than not, it is football related. "Football" as in what we moronic Americans refer to as "soccer."]
"So how was your day?" he asks.
I start to tell him my boring tale of the work I did from home that day. My recounting barely gets off the ground before he interrupts.
"Does Dad get jealous that you talk to all those men?" he wonders.
He is referring to the sex study I am doing. He knows only that I talk to a bunch of men. About sex.
"Dad doesn't get jealous. For two reasons. First, it's work. And, second, the men I talk to like other men. They don't like women," I tell him.
"Oh," he says.
"There's nothing wrong with being gay," he adds.
And so we pass our time in the local Subway with me praising him for his attitude and talking about hate and what "derogatory" means and how he'll hear nasty things about gay people as he goes through middle school and high school and how it's as wrong to hate someone or use a slur about someone for being gay as it is to do the same with regards to someone who is Black or Hispanic or a girl and how hard it is for someone to feel so much hatred heaped upon them. And so on and so forth.
Just another parent and child moment, but one that gives me hope that, for all my faults in the parenting department, I'm succeeding sometimes.