As every eight-year-old boy knows, talking about poop is great fun. George is no exception.
He’s been a little obsessed with it lately. More than a little.
I’m not sure where it all started. Maybe with Fitz and the Tantrums’, “Money Grabber.” When we first heard the song on XM, Chris said, “Is he saying Party Crapper?” And, indeed, “Money Grabber” did sound quite a bit like “Party Crapper.” In fact, we liked Party Crapper even better than Money Grabber, so we continued to sing it that way. It’s since become a staple in our home. Last night, as I called the kids in from an evening of “Jail Break” with the neighbors, I announced, “Kids, I hate to be the Party Crapper, but it’s time for showers and bed.”
As you’ve probably guessed, we’re not always about appropriateness over here. Laughter tends to trump all that other stuff in our house.
The kids were having an intelligent and insightful car conversation a few days ago about how everyone’s poop stunk. There were examples, anecdotes, tall tales. I turned the Brandi Carlile up to drown them out.
But I still heard George proclaim, “My poop doesn’t stink! It’s lemon-scented!”
Yesterday, as we were driving home from lacrosse, George informed me, “Get me home soon! I really have to poop! I have to poop so much, I can’t even think about rocks falling off a cliff!”
Really. Rocks falling off a cliff.
And as he was doing his business in the downstairs bathroom, Chris and I were catching up in the living room. George continued to interrupt our conversation with his poop updates.
“I don’t think my poop is lemon-scented anymore!” he yelled. “I think it smells like real poop now!”
“Okay, George,” Chris replied, “I’m done hearing about your poop. No more.”
“But it really stinks!”
“George, I’m warning you. That’s enough.”
“Don’t you want to come smell it?”
“If I come in there, I’m going to take you off that pot and whip your bottom!”
“But there’s poop on my butt! You don’t want to spank me right now!”
And at that point, I had to physically restrain my husband from invading the bathroom to teach his son a poop-talk lesson.
“If you have any sense at all, George,” I warned, “you’ll stop talking. Now.”
Chris and I resumed our conversation and Maggie commenced to licking herself at our feet. Noisily. Everywhere. And with great deliberation. She’s a loud-licker, that dog. It’s impossible to ignore.
“Would you rather listen to George’s poop talk or listen to Maggie licking herself?” I asked my work-weary husband.
“Really?” he replied. “Really? What I’d rather do is not have to play ‘Would You Rather’ the instant I get home from work. That’s what I’d rather.”