It was mentioned in the comments on a recent post that I do not discuss my middle son, Alex, nearly enough. I’d figured that since I’d devoted Year One of Mommy Wants Vodka to him, you guys were probably sick of hearing about him.
Alas, I was wrong.
When Alex was two, I’d finally managed to wrangle my boobs away from him – he was a Boob Man – and *cue angels singing on high* put him in the shopping cart when we went to The Target. After spending the first year of his life as the ONLY person he’d allow to hold him – and in my arms was the only place he’d not shriek – this was no minor victory.
Whenever I think of Alex, I think of the legend of the Monkey Paw, which apparently no one else has ever heard. Basically, there’s a long-winded, slightly creepy story involving wishes, dead monkey paws and gypsies. The moral of the story? “Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” I’d have guessed the moral to be something more like, “don’t buy a dead monkey paw, you jackass.”
During his pregnancy, see, I’d cried and moaned and carried on about how much I wanted a baby that loved me best (Ben’s autistic and didn’t give a flying poo about me)(can you blame him?).
WHOOOOO-BOY did I get that in spades.
So there I am, in The Target, trying to soothe my savage son who is trying to wrangle his way from the cart and into my arms, where his newborn sister is. It’s nearly impossible to hold the two of them and walk around at the same time, so I decided that the only course of action was to begin to sing. So I did.
“C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me, OH C is for cookie. Um. A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, OH A is for Alex, that’s good enough for me, oh Alex Alex Alex starts with A!”
Probably terrified a good number of shoppers with my
horrifying amazing singing.
It was then that my son, son of my heart, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, told his first joke. In song form.
“P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. P is for Poopy, that’s good enough for me. Oh poopy poopy poopy starts with P!” Then he burst into gales of laughter.
Rather than scold him, yell, or even raise my voice for making an off-color, inappropriate joke, I busted a gut. Then I beamed in pride. It’s not like I sing the P is for Poopy* song myself or anything.
This Sunday, on the way home from picking the boys up from their sleepover at Grandma’s, my musical eldest began singing all 198 versions to London Bridge Is Falling Down. Apparently, in addition to dancing cat videos and porn, You Tube is ALSO good at teaching kids all the obscure verses to songs.
As my eldest sang, “Build it up with bricks and hay,” for the zillionth time, my middle son decided that what the song needed was a little pizazz. So he, in all his tone-deaf glory, began to chant, “Build it up with poop and hay, poop and hay.”
Rather than do the proper thing and be all After School Special on him, “Now Alex, we don’t say, ‘poop’ in this house,” I laughed. I laughed so hard that it actually hurt.
He’s the kid that’ll net me a jillion angry phone calls from other parents. It’ll be all I can do not to laugh.