I try to be a good mom and take my kids to the library. We live in small town south of Montreal, and the selection of English books is abysmal. The French section is only slightly better. Last week, Z decided to check out a picture book about jobs. We had a talk on the walk home about how he could look though it to pick out what he wanted to do when he grows up. Of course, when we got home there were two other kids to deal with and supper to make, so that plan went out the window. The next morning I wake up to Z standing beside my bed with the book in his hands. “Mama, why are there doctors that look at your bum?” Boy, was I thrown for a loop. Then he showed me a picture:

Apparently this is in a thermal spa. Um…ok. I’ve gotten massages before, and they’ve never involved lying bare naked on a table like that. Wonder what kind of massage parlor the author’s been frequenting?

I was even more confused when I saw the next one:

Spa treatment or prison hosedown?

We moved on to the farm section. Ooh, veterinarians! Fun, cute, safe! Right?

Oh no. Not the conversation I was looking to have at 7am on a Tuesday morning.

And then why teach kids that veterinarians only help to make animals better? Why not show them they also have the choice to work as a quality controller in a slaughterhouse. Every kid’s dream, no?

Luckily for me, Z told me that he had already decided what he wants to do when he grows up. He wants to feed the chickens. Alright son, sounds good to me.

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