Of babies and being a boy

The brat and I watched a particularly interesting episode of National Geographic where an elephant gives birth. Cruel mamma that I am I insisted the brat watch though his interest was keener towards vamoosing with the iPad to a quiet corner where he could watch John Cena versus Randy Orton massacre each other on Youtube uploads uploaded by kind souls who foresaw the immense potential this had for long drive bratsitting purposes.
Nonetheless, with the birthing scene in 3 Idiots behind us, I thought a refresher course on biological birthing was in order and the elephant I chanced upon while switching channels seemed the perfect godsent moment to explain how the baby comes out in a sack of water, etc, etc and how baby animals can stand immediately and feed etc. The brat watched, grimly, without comment. Then came the agonised squawk, "wai dere's all blud?" Errm. I glossed it over by telling him that the baby comes from the elephant so a little blood comes out when it falls out.
The viewing done with in the morning, the rest of the day passed without further comment. At dinnertime, at the table, he piped up, "thank god I'm nod a gurl." I bristled assuming he was getting misplaced notions of being superior or privileged in any way because he drew the XY card from the spermatozoa that was instrumental in making him. "Why?" I asked gently, ready to dispel any such notions ruthlessly.
He looked thoughtful. "No birthing any babies fer me."
Errm.
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