Recently, my straight-laced Mr. took a step in an uncharacteristically racy direction by attempting to send me a mid-day lascivious text. Attempting is the operative word because due to his human error (who knew that the IT guy was human? I thought he was just a robot with feelings), the text did not get to me. It did, however, reach First Born Son's friend's father who had- up until the receipt of that suggestive text-only communicated about carpooling for soccer. Take this as a cautionary tale- double check (and then check again) to make sure you know who you are texting before you send a message about bringing home Polish sausage.
There is another kind of dirty talk being spoken around here. It know that it will be short lived. But, it has permeated all subjects of conversation. It is not racy but it does illicit an emotional response. Mainly misguided pride. As much as I sometimes question their maternal parentage based upon their hatred of horses, an aptitude for math and science or the red hair- it is further proof that these children did, in fact, descend from me (or more specifically, my father's side). It is obvious that they did not inherit this from their father because he makes a face like he just ate a poop when he hears it. And he doesn't giggle at all.
I try to behave like a proper mother. I do tell her to stop. It's not appropriate. But then I hear myself calling them by their pet names: Poopernutter, Poopy Head or just plain Poop. I am a hypocrite. And I deserve these visits at bed time- after I've tucked her in. She comes to me sweetly and announces, 'I want to sing one song to you.'
I'm sure her father, who has a degree in astrophysics, could answer the question about what a star poops if his mouth wasn't so contorted against the unsavory language coming out of his little girl's mouth. I haven't told him that she's dropped worse dirty bombs. Again, all my fault. ( But dropping bombs keeps me from killing them some days).
I know that the poop talk will run it's course. All of the kids did it as some point- usually when they started pre-kindergarten. I try to keep my giggling to a minimum and ignore it.
But, I do cherish this one instance- although I think she was truly innocent and misheard me. The news was on TV and across the screen there flashed an image of the Pope, standing on his little Pope balcony with his arms outstretched to receive the crowd below him. She looked up at the screen and sighed dreamily, "Ahh, a king." (She is, for better or worse, smitten with princesses and princes). "No. That's the Pope, " I corrected. She looked back at the screen, still imagining his castle, "Oh, King Poop."
All hail, King Poop.
*This post is not intended to be anti- religion, anti- Catholic, anti-Pope. It is, however, intended to be pro-Poop. So believe what you believe and let me believe in poop.