Summer Vacation - Get outta town; I’m just here for the food! - Day 26
Summer Vacation - Past, present and future tenses & private parts - Day 32

Summer Vacation - Past, present and future tenses & private parts - Day 32

I'm reading Silly Hat, yesterday, and there's an interesting discussion on children and their "private parts," where she raises the question, "What do you call it?"

I was inspired to re-publish a rather tense "old" This Full House post -- because I'm currently fighting the crowds and exercising my babe magnetics at the beach...and can't link to it...never having bothered to move my files from Typepad...because I am a Doofus! -- for your Hump Day reading pleasure:   This Is My House and We Don't Say The Word Penis!


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"You’re a mental case…and I can’t believe I trust you to raise our four children?"

Hey now! Hold on a minute there, Bucko! Okay…I admit it….I’m quirky and may haps just a wee bit wacky, but anyone who knows me…um…knows. I’m totally and perfectly trustworthy. I swear – just go and check the bulletin board hanging in my kitchen.

Where?

You can’t see it from the dozens of notes and reminders tacked to it…can you?

Oh…and hey! How about the calendar? Look at all those dates blocked off and penciled in with notes like, "Little Man needs cupcakes," and "Don't forget Thing Two's class donation," or "Volunteer for Thing One's class" and "Take Dad to Lab, today."

Ask anyone…need Liz?...and I am so there!

So there!

**phone rings – answering machine picks up ‘cause I screen**

"Um…yeah…hi…uh…it’s *Psycho Soccer Mom* and I’m collecting $10 for coach *So-and-So* and I’d like to come by and pick up the $10 today. Please call me back at…"
**blank stare**

Huh? Come by and pick up the ten bucks? What’s with that? Maybe I'm being "a wee bit sensitive," but I’ve collected donations many times, but never – ever – have I offered to "come by" or to do something "today" ever!
**rolling eyes**

"What’s the big deal?"

Feh! Husbands…what they know from a big deal!?! The big deal is who knew there was a donation police?

I didn’t call her back.

Just hold your water…you’ll get my donation there…lady.

**phone ringing the next morning**

"Hewwoo? Hoo iz diz?"

My 3 year old smiled and excitedly paced circles in front of my desk as I motioned to the heavens in mock strangulation.

"Hello…yes…oh yes. I did get your message and I’m sorry I haven’t called back. Hmmm…gift certificate sounds good…okay, but I’m in and out all day…so can I maybe drop it off while running errands…or something?"

Now I’m truly annoyed and what I truly wanted to say was, "Why don’t you just take the freakin’ money from me at the game on Saturday? Like a normal person. And quit stalking me!"

Saturday’s game is rained out.

Shit!

A day or two passes and there’s another message (no, while I was out…for real!):

"Mrs. Mental Case…this is *Psycho Soccer Mom* and I must insist that I have your $10 by tomorrow, because that is when I would like to get the gift certificate. I’ll take my chances and be stopping by your house…."

**beep**

"Hello? No, not necessary. I will definitely drop the money off to you…hmm…okay…all right…I’ll leave it between the screened door and the front door…sure…uh-huh…buh-bye."
**click**

A day later (it slipped my mind…I swear!):
**phone rings**

"Hewwoo? Hoo iz diz?"

Ugh…give it to me… give…give…me…the "Yes? Hoooooly…oh crap! I am totally, totally sorry. It’s just been crazy around here and…huh? No…um…okay…how about if I just leave it in my mailbox? Okay? Okay. Buh-bye"

So, the donation police get what they want…but it ain’t gonna come easy.

Not so mental?

Well…that’s not exactly the thing my husband was worried about.

You see…I was already tense...um…yesterday, so I took the kids to The Dollar Tree after school and…um…like…my 5 year old son had to go to the bathroom…and there isn't any…um…you know…at The Dollar Tree…and the Home Depot was way across on the other side of the parking lot…and…um…he’s a boy and all…so…I asked my two oldest to cruise the toy aisle with the 3 year old (who was strapped into the carriage, relax!) while I took my son to the parking lot to…um…you know...let her (I mean, him) rip.

**opening driver’s side door**

"Okay, Buddy…there’s nobody around and I’ll block you with my body. Just let-er-rip!"
**zip**

Ripping.

"How’s it goin’?"

My son whips his head around to see who I’m talking to and his…you know...follows and starts hosing down the driver’s side door.

"Whoa! Little Man…watch what you’re doing!"

Now he freaks and lets go.

"Whoa Buddy! Grab it and aim for the ground!"

**shakes his hands in the air and still ripping**

"I don’t know what you want me to do!"
**me shouting now**

"Just grab your penis and aim, dammit!"
**heads begin to turn**

"WHAT’S A PENIS?!?"

I stare at my son and realize that…in our house, we don’t say penis…we say peenie.

**blush**

Not crazy, right?
**the sound of crickets**

Tell me it’s funny…dammit!

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