It’s Blue’s birthday! He turned three today and it’s also the anniversary (more or less) of his joining our family. Of course we had to do something special.
Me: What should we get Blue for his birthday?
Testicles: Let’s get him a marrow bone. Or a cow penis!
Aw shit. The Bully Stick incident.
My neighbor, who is also a pediatric nurse practitioner, firmly believes that one should never deceive their children. About anything. Which includes Santa. I suck at the Easter Bunny and Toothfairy thing anyway so I use moral superiority as an excuse for unimaginative parenting.
One day I brought home a Bully Stick for the dog to chew on.
Of course Testy wanted to know what it was so I told him. It’s a cow penis. Boy oh boy, did they ever run with that one. I kept it in the car to keep Blue occupied when we drove around and I had to endure the boys screaming, “Don’t touch me with the penis!”, “Ew, the penis touched me!” “I’ve got your penis!”
Fortunately Blue ate the damn thing (ew) and they dropped the whole penis thing. And yes, I told them that it wasn’t polite to talk about penises and vaginas, especially at school and if they did, I wouldn’t rescue them from the principal’s office.
I thought they forgot about it until today, when I asked them what we should get for Blue’s birthday. Testy chimed in with Cow Penis and I stood there deflated.
The cashier at Turduckin’s had to suppress a snort when we rolled up to the counter with a Hide A Squirrel dog toy, which is marginally less embarrassing than the Hide The Sausage toy that they sell down the street at the sex shop.
This is what truth gets you.
Time to cut the crap.
I’m so into spring right now, it’s hard to focus on the task at hand.
Today I have some plastic cups which, frankly, we never use, some Blue Curacao I bought for a black-light party that actually does not flouresce (it’s Midori that glows), a bra one of our renters left behind, a choke chain I never have used on Blue, a couple PJ tops handed down from a friend who’s kid was a total shit and I don’t like to see my boys wearing anything that reminds me of that turd, and a bunch of stuff stuck to my fridge. That’s 13.
Happy birthday my Kablooey, my Diggity Dog, my Chuffmaster, Mr. Flappy Lips, I love you, Dummy! Let’s gain 20 more pounds this year, okay?