“A Basic Civil Right: Being Scatalogical”
What is it about little boys?
Why are the colon and its emissions so profoundly, continually hilarious to wee males?
These days, my four-year-old (who, in his defense, is heavily under the influence of a cadre of neighborhood seven-year-old fellas) toodles around the house, absentmindedly singing a little ditty of his own composition:
“I’m a poopy head/I’m a poop-poopy-pooper/I’m a poopy head
Hey, Mom? / You’re a poopy-pooper, too/We’re all poop”
Sure, it’s charming enough, and I’d wipe a quiet tear from my eye if Jordin from American Idol belted it out on her first album,
but, really? Enough with the fecal talk, okay?
There’s just something about testosterone + humor that unerringly = da butt.
Case in point:
Last night, I was reading a book to the kids called Hello USA! It’s a dumb Hello Kitty book, but we’re stretching here in the house to meet our seven-year-old daughter’s fascination with maps, continents, oceans–all things social studyish, in fact–and Hello Kitty has been workin’ the geography for us this week.
the Mid-America Windmill Museum is in Kendallville, Indiana
the Brown Thrasher is the state bird of Georgia
the pop-up toaster was invented in 1919 in Stillwater, Minnesota
the world’s largest buffalo sculpture is in Jamestown, North Dakota
the world’s first alpine chairlift was built in 1936 in the world’s first ski resort in Sun Valley, Idaho
and the octopi found in Puget Sound are the world’s largest
The whimsical overview of Americana crashed and burned, though, when we got to Alabama. On that page, I no sooner read the words “Birmingham Civil Rights Institute” than I was interrupted with
“You said toot!”
Giggles ensued. And again, “Mom said toot!”
And again with the toot. And again.
Plus one more.
A few minutes after the intial joy and amusement, “institoot” permanently entered the family vernacular; see, each night, after I get the kids into bed, they holler out for their pappy (who is generally downstairs wilting some bok choy and broiling some marinated flank steak on skewers) that it is time for him to come upstairs for squeezes and smooches. Of late, the kiddles have decided to beckon him not with a resounding “DAAAAAADDDDY,” but rather by calling out for him with some cool-sounding word. To wit, they have been heard bellering “Onomatopoeia” to get him to come upstairs these last weeks. However, as of last night, thanks to The Kitty of Helloishness, the Girl has started hollering–yes, quite fun–“Okefenokee.” But the Wee Niblet?
Yea, he now just wails “Institoooooooot.”
Go, Birmingham. Go, civil rights. Go, Da Butt.
Makin’ Martin Luther King, Jr. proud,
The Wincing Mother of a Boy
Oh, and hey, Jazz, this is reason 478 why you can be glad you didn’t have kids.
And male readers? ‘Fess up: you never have stopped finding this stuff to be the pinnacle of humor, have you? I mean, I shouldn’t wait, with breath bated, for this “phase” to fade away, right? Realistically, the lad will be pretty much tuned into the poop channel ’round the clock for the next three decades, ja?
If that’s the case, I have one word: crap.