Hard Question

Six year old Michael shuffles home from school, hanging his head sadly.

"What's the matter Michael?"

"Mummy?" He turns his round face upwards to his mother, tears lap at the edges of his pale blue eyes.  "Why is my willie bigger than everyone else's?"

The age of difficult questions has arrived.  How to answer this.  Michele settled on a combination of "God did it" and "Because you're American."

Last night I managed to get home early enough to see Michael to bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"My willie's fat."  He spits the "fat" like an expletive.  An expression of grave concern crosses his face.

"Is that a problem?"

"It's different from English willies."

"Oh?  How?"

"They're thin.  Mine's fat."

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's scary."  Hm.  I didn't think it was THAT big. 

"You know, Michael, every boy has one."

"Of course I know that."  Duh, dad.

"And they're all different."

"Oh."

"And when you're older it won't really matter."

"Oh."

A long pause.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"Is YOUR willie big?"

"Um.  It's the right size."

"It must be big."

"Why?"

"Because YOU'RE big.  And you're American."