If you’ve been worried about the the right age to teach your children “Found a Peanut” or “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” you can mark that off your to-do list. I’m happy to report that if your kids are exposed to a wide variety of wholesome friends they’ll learn those songs and many other, equally irritating ditties as well. I think it happens by osmosis.
We discovered this on our way home from Auburn, where we’d gone to visit Bill’s parents, although everyone else seemed to think the football game was the main event.
Sunday Finn was in a Dramamine-induced coma in the back seat after a morning of vomiting, so Porter and Drew had to compete only with each other to be heard on the way home.
After a stop at McDonald’s, the boys were eating their chicken strips. Drew started cracking up.
“Hey Porter, I’m eating female chicken,” he said. “The box says ‘all white premium chicken breast’ so I’m eating a lady chicken’s boob!”
The duo started laughing so hard that I was forced to place a moratorium on further boob/tit/breast talk, for fear the guys would choke.
I’m getting ever so tired of hearing the conversation that passes for witty banter among the third grade set; it always includes guns and blood or body parts (or a combination of all three). I turned up Amy Winehouse on the iPod and tried to ignore my offspring.
Later in the trip, though, I learned that Porter has a cut of unknown origin on his penis.
In the middle of the twins’ babbling I heard Drew command, “Porter, put your horse back in the barn.” This grabbed my attention. We don’t have a horse; this is universal Glamore code for “put your pecker back in your pants immediately.” (Are we the only family who has invented a code for this instruction? It will be embarrassing if none of the rest of you have.)
“Porter, why is your horse out of the barn?” I demanded, without turning around, because I’ve made that mistake before.
“Because it has a cut on it and I was looking to see if the cut has gotten any better,” he answered.
“It looks just the same to me, Porter, so put it back in your pants,” Drew said derisively. “You’re always looking at it.”
“No one needs to examine his penis in the car. Wait until you get home and do that in the bathroom,” I decreed.
“I don’t know how you got a cut on your pecker anyway,” Drew said. “That’s stupid.”
“I don’t know either, okay,” Porter said peevishly. “Just leave me alone.”
There was silence for about a mile.
Then Porter spoke up again. “Mom, I want to change my name. Can I?”
“Sure,” I said tiredly.
“Okay, I want everyone to call me Porter-is-fun-dot-com Glamore. And now it’s time to sing.”
And then the ditties began.
When traveling with boys, start off well-rested, as you’ll need every ounce of energy to rein in their more outlandish behavior during the journey.
Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Cocoa Puffs and Lady Lumps