Following is an excerpt of last night’s dinner conversation:
Sam (14): “George, stop spanking your chicken.”
George (8): “But I like spanking my chicken.”
I nearly snorted red wine out of my nose and refused to make eye contact with my husband. Doing so would have resulted in inappropriate laughter and questions we weren’t necessarily poised to answer.
I posted this quip on Facebook and my insanely talented author friend promptly replied, “Well, thank goodness the chicken wasn’t being choked. That would have been awkward.”
Last week, Gus (12) emerged from the basement and informed me that he and his siblings had just finished watching an episode of “Ghost Hunters” during which they explored an old, haunted prison.
“And you know what?” Gus asked.
“The prison record listed the strangest cause of death I’ve ever heard of.”
“What was that?” I asked, playing along.
“Death by masturbation.”
I’m sensing a recurrent theme reverberating throughout our house right now, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Give me dirty diapers and stinky formula any day. It was cute when they grabbed their penises as babies. Now it’s just… something I don’t really want to think about.
I’m leaving this conversation to their dad.