Perhaps I’ve been giving you the wrong impression about my boys lately. Sure, they’re creative salsa-making, decorating geniuses. But they are not perfect. I know you remember the pictures of all the laundry they produce. You’ve read that they love to tattle on each other.
It gets even worse. Our boys are now at the age where everything related to poop and/or genitalia is hilarious. They poke each others’ willies and they laugh at each others’ poops. It’s a lot for a lady to deal with.
We went to the lake for the long weekend. Once we got there Bill and I cooked up some Pasta Puttanesca.
The boys loved it, but they loved the name of the dish even more, and
spent a good thirty minutes making jokes about “Pasta Poot-anesca”
accompanied by fake farting sounds and many renditions of “The Diarrhea
(Of course you’re familiar with “The Diarrhea Song”. You probably sang it as a child until your mom made you stop because
she couldn’t stand hearing you sing about feces for very long, even if
the tune was bright and cheery.)
The childish food-related behavior did not stop there. The next night we built a bonfire on the beach and roasted hot dogs and s’mores. We were on the frigid beach, huddled by the fire, when Finn noticed that his hot dog seemed unusually large. After consulting the package, we realized that I had purchased Oscar Meyer Bun Length Wieners, rather than normal sized hot dogs.
“Mom, why are these hot dogs longer than regular hot dogs?” Porter asked.
Before I could remind him about the ketchupy piece of hot dog bun that’s inevitably left over after you eat a regular hot dog, Finn cut in.
“Bun Length Wieners!” Finn shouted. “Hey guys, look at my long wiener!” He shook his bent coat hanger to and fro, waving his hot dog in the air while his brothers shrieked.
“My wiener is as long as my buns!” Finn continued, holding a hot dog up against his bottom and dancing around.
Porter started laughing and grabbed a plain hot dog and held it in front of his pants and waggled it. “Look, my wiener is jiggling!” he yelled. Drew doubled over in hysterics.
I turned to Bill. “Honey,” I implored, “can’t you calm them down? I just want a peaceful family campfire. I’ve had enough of the farting and pooting and diarrhea and now the jiggly wiener.”
Bill looked at me in shock. “Did you just say, ‘jiggly wiener?'” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “I want them to roast their Bun Length Wieners, not waggle them suggestively. Tell them to stop.”
He did. Eventually everyone settled down.
But the mere mention of Bun Length Wieners in our house sets off a round of suggestive comments and giggling — so much so that I have decided that we’ll be buying regular frankfurters in the future.