Anya is six.
She and Sierra were playing down in the basement. I was with them, as was Liam, in between his numerous, non-stop diaper changes. (He's finishing up his encounter with a stomach bug that kept him in the hospital for three days, two nights.)
I was—luckily?—downstairs to overhear this conversation she was having with Sierra (age four), regarding the various toys they were playing with.
Anya: He's really happy, because he has a lot of sex.
Me: He... what?
Anya: He's happy, because he has a lot of sex.
Me: A lot of what?
Me: Um. What's sex?
Anya: You know, sex. Like, bags.
Anya: Yeah, sacks.
Dodged a bullet.