Remember Me?

And here I am...

Again.

Under a pile of things.  Under life, really.  But surrounded by it all the same.

I won't carry on about schedules and business and such.  Really?  Who cares?  What I will do is record for my own memory some funny things I wish to remember.

We went to the museum on a field trip.  Never a dull moment on one of those.  What with the fact that you're going to encounter some mannequin nakedness and all.  A couple years ago we went and the group I was shuffling around encountered a group that was being shuffled around with a dad.  Daughter of said dad declares to me, "I just saw a penis around the corner."  The dad looked at me and shrugged.  A "What the hell do I say to the fact that my daughter just told her teacher she saw a penis right in front of me because she did so what the hell can I say" sort of hug.  True 'dat.  She'd seen a penis.

Fast forward two years.  Penis is still there.  Still on the small Native American child with parent at a trading post.  It was there 30 plus years ago, I tell you.  I remember seeing it on field trips.  Never told my teacher, mind you.  But, that was just the sort of kid I was.  The sort that doesn't report penises to her teacher. 

So, anyway...The group I am wrangling turns a corner to the exhibit now thought of simply as "Penis".  One girl with great enthusiasm and energy and slight lisp stops dead in tracks.  Jaw drops.  Hand raises to the air. 

"Ummm...That is just gross," she gasps.

Boy turns corner.  Jaw also drops. 

The two continue to stare.  Third child looks, shrugs, moves on.  After all, there are guns at an exhibit right nearby.  Why bother ones' self with a plastic penis?

Girl and Boy 1, however, are still locked in.  Simply can't look away.  Hypnotized.

In case I didn't hear that she'd seen something "gross" she says (again with a perfectly slight lisp).

"Wow.  I see something that I am NOT supposed to talk about."

And how do you not laugh? 

You do.  You just do.  Because, really...Kids are awesome. And embarrassing.  And attracted to body parts.

Which brings me to another story.

I've asked before what age would be appropriate to send Fuss into a locker room of his own.  This is getting urgent.  Last time we escaped disaster when nobody actually heard in the dressing room that he was going to shoot my hairy thing.  This time - Not so much.

Thursday night.  Swim lessons.  Very, very, very busy at the YMCA.  So, no matter what locker room you're in, someones there.  With ears, no less.  They always insist on listening. 

I am trying (without success) to wrangle my semi dry self into my clothes and hightail it out of crowded locker room before Fuss embarrasses me.

Only I don't move fast enough.  Only a jet plane wouldn't move fast enough.  Light doesn't move fast enough, really.

So imagine my horror when he says, "I know what those floppy things under your shirt are called." 

I gave my very best, "Do not say a word or your ass is toast" look and said, "DO.  NOT.  SAY.  A.  WORD."  You know, in case the look didn't cut it. 

He did.  I guess I shouldn't jump to the conclusion that he then chose not to listen to me.  It was quite possible that he didn't hear me what with the laughter of the no less than five women in our dressing area.

He did.  And I guess I should have expected it because as much as always listens to my stern demands (pffffft...like never), he enjoys a good laugh.  And he was getting one, so why not be EVEN funnier.

So, he did.

"Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooobs," he says.  All drawn out like a crazy pervert. 

Lord.  Help.  Me. 

He did give the peeps in the locker room a nice little story to take home on a Thursday night.

I fool myself when I say I blog these so that I remember them.  How could I not.

I blog these to amuse you.