I think part of the reason why I'm able to build such a good rapport with my middle school students is because sandwiched between the frontal and temporal lobes of my brain there is a section labeled 15 Year Old Teenage Boy. While I think expulsion of bodily gasses is overwhelmingly disgusting and rude, there is an equal part of me that finds it ridiculously hilarious when someone accidentally busts a grumpy or trips and falls in public. The trouble with it is that now I have to balance my sophomoric slant with good parenting, lest I raise a horde of filthy-minded children who lack good home training. Take, for example, the following conversations I recently had with Jaiden and Kyra:
Jaiden: (laughingly) OUCH! MOOOOM! Bella (our golden retriever puppy) just stepped on my joystick!
me: (amused) Your joystick?
He called it his "joystic," to which I immediately cracked up over. It made sense because in my mind flashed this:
Then the Mom brain kicked in and placed the preposition of in the middle of the compound word and joystick morphed into stick of joy. Which, y'know, also makes sense, but the words fit better coming from the mouth of Dirk Diggler instead of from my innocently goofy almost-nine-year-old son.
me: Uuuuuhhh, son? I don't really think it's too appropriate to refer to your privates as your "joystick."
Jaiden: Okay…well what about "manbits"?
me: You are definitely my child.
Conversation with Kyra
Yesterday afternoon, I burned the bejeezus out the edge of my thumb on my George Forman grill when my hand registered a few seconds too late that my brain was sending out HEY, STUPID – YOUR FINGER IS ON FIRE! distress signals. I was incapacitated for the rest of the day and couldn't get anything accomplished in the house (like I really needed the excuse). Seriously though – within in minutes the burn blistered into an angry welt under which the nerve endings blazed with scorching pain. I kept my thumb pressed against an ice pack, and within seconds of lifting my thumb away from my it my thumb was set ablaze all over again. After a few hours with no improvement in the pain, I called Frank (who was out shopping) and asked him to bring home some sort of pain relieving burn ointment, because oh my gawd, I was dying.
He made it home within the hour and brought my first aid supplies to me. One item was maximum strength Neosporin with pain relief. The other was something I had neither seen nor heard of before, and when I laid eyes on it, I immediately lost my shit:
When I was able to stop laughing long enough to catch my breath, I slathered Neosporin on my burn, selected a "cot" from the bag, and carefully unrolled it down over my thumb. I turned my thumb this way and that, and before I knew it I was once again in hysterics and without thinking loudly exclaimed, "THIS LOOKS LIKE A CONDOM WITH SPERMICIDE!"
To which Kyra asked, "Mom, what's a condom with spermicide?"
My giggles pinched off with a quickness. I took a deep breath, steeled my courage, and gave her a good answer:
"Go ask your father"