I got a fancy phone yesterday that Junior immediately programmed with reminders for me to “take a dump” at 5:30 am and to “get beauty sleep” at 7 pm. He also asked the lady voice thingie: “How do I clean up monkey poo?” Isn’t he clever?
It got me thinking to how much fodder he provides to the blog, so I decided to do a few blasts from the past before I remove the ape shit in my living room…
“MOOOOOOM!!!!!,” I hear from the other room, “Junior has camel toe!”
I don’t even want to know.
1) Did he figured out how to tuck his privates into his arse? (Silence of the Lambs)
2) Where the hell did Missy learn that phrase? Probably Tom letting them watch Family Guy again.
I take a deep breath, enter the room and find Junior innocently wearing my flip-flops with socks.
Shame on me!
Junior is in the Gifted Program
Here is an entry from Junior’s Kindergarten journal. The handwriting is his teacher’s interpretation of what he was trying to write. We are still trying to figure out if he upper decked someone.
Last night, we had to fast-forward through a suspenseful part of a movie because Junior’s “penis was nervous.”
Yep, it was the scene in “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” where all the chaos breaks out while Blart is playing Guitar Hero. Apparently his privates are fine during fist fights, hostage situations and love scenes.
Can’t wait for puberty.
Not in the Parenting Handbook
What is the appropriate punishment for drawing a moustache, beard and wiener on your sister’s Jonas Brothers poster?
My Little Asstronaut
Junior invited my brother Kevin to “Special Person’s Day” at school. During their assignment to write about a spaceship, Junior smirks and says to his Special Person, “I know where it should go!” and writes down: Your Anis.
Kevin whacked Junior on his giant head with a pencil and replies, “We going to Mars.”
Highway to Hell
“Oh great, something else to waste my day!” Junior’s satanic reaction to starting Religious Ed classes.
Junior’s Cup Runneth Over
So baseball season is upon us and the kids are playing catcher this year which only means one thing: lots of errant balls! Coach (husband) instructs the parents to get all their boys cups for protection.
So I take the kids to Dick’s (insert proper jock strap joke here) Sporting Goods for my first cup shopping experience. I try to explain to Junior what this contraption is and how it will protect his privates during a game. He then takes this opportunity to insert “PENIS” into every comment and question while we are perusing the baseball section.
“So mom, do you think this green one will look good on my PENIS?”
“Hey, do you think the one over here will fit over my PENIS?”
“Why does this say pee-wee size? Is that good for my PENIS?”
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Those over there must be for boys with big PENISES.” (Okay, gotta admit that finally catches my attention. Who knew there were so many sizes for so many endowments? The larger they got, the more they reminded me of Jason masks. Or of my husband’s sleep apnea mask.)
Straps, shorts, sliding pads, briefs… the options were dizzying and I found myself squeezing the cups to see if the gel pads really were more cozy than the rubber option. Of course, I get busted by Junior as he is lying in the aisle laughing his PENIS off.
I grab a $25 testicle festival and get the hell out of there.
Please share this with everyone who has the joy of raising a boy: