Tap, tap, tap on my arm. "Hey, Mommy?"
But I was enthralled in conversation with my mom at the moment, and I didn't answer right away. Plus, it's good for little boys to wait, now and then. And then some more.
Tap, tap, tap. "Hey, Mommy?"
I put my hand on his. Message: I heard you. One moment, please.
Tap, tap. "Hey, Mommy Butthead?"
Stop that train.
"Excuse me?!?"
"Mommy Butthead."
"We do not say that in our family, Tucker. Where did you hear that?"
"Daddy says it. Daddy says, 'Hey, Mommy Butthead.'"
Okay, no, he doesn't. Let the record show, my husband does not call me - and neither will I answer to - Butthead.
He does, however, call our dog: Molly Butthead Terd-Wad.
And the loose translation of permissible language to little ears is Mommy Butthead.
And what is a Mommy to say, when the boys heard it from their very own supportive parental role model?
"Okay, Dadddy is talking about the dog. But Please don't say that. I know Daddy does. But... just, please don't."
(For the record, Robb thought the use was hysterical... but not so much in reference to Mommy. I stand fully supported of that ix-nay.)
And... I live in a frat house, with an elite vocabulary all my own.
1 comment:
I sympathize, my dear. Truly, I do. Let the record show, however, that living in a jr. sorority seems, at least at the moment, to be equally traumatic. (Besides which, there is remarkably little difference in the two native dialects.) Courage in the battle, comrade-in-arms.
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