I’ll filth your foul, foul filth…

A few afternoons ago, I took my daughter to get her hair cut. It would be a nice time to talk to her about going back to school, calm any nerves and generally have a quaint mother/daughter moment. We were driving along down the road…

“Excited about going back to school?”

“Yes, but not really about getting up early. I like to sleep in. Although, I won’t have to eat breakfast with Noah anymore.”

This thought puzzled me. My kids are six, four and two-years-old, and are being raised as if they were all the same age. They enjoy nothing more than each other’s company. In fact, when they are apart, they’re kind of miserable; all mopey and asking when so-and-so is coming back…I waited a few beats, thinking she might elaborate. She did not. Her face was marred by this frightening scowl.

“Honey, why on Earth would you not want to eat with Noah?”

“Well, he gets in trouble every morning. He makes potty talk. He’s always saying things he shouldn’t and getting in trouble for it.” She starts gesturing wildly with her hands (their Nanny is Italian, so as assimilated by osmosis, my children believe they are Italian as well and constantly wave their hands about like mad little people). Her voice rises to a crescendo that reminds me of dog whistles. [Apparently, a distraught child’s voice can penetrate the parental lobe on a level that no one else can. My ears are starting to bleed…]

Somehow, my bloodied ears perk . I’m getting valuable intel! I’ve never heard that there was a problem at breakfast from our Nanny. Also, I don’t eat breakfast, so on the weekends, I’m not overly privy to my “sweet” son’s behavior. “What do you mean potty talk, baby?”

She sighs. Loudly. I can now tell she’s more than upset by this whole line of questioning. I urge her forward once more… ”It’s ok, sweetie, you can tell me. What does he say?” I’m slightly ashamed to think that I am terrified of what she’s about to say.

“HE SAYS POTTY WORDS!” she blurts out. I brace myself for the worst. [See, I have the mouth of a truck driver, one that I’ve been told would make a sailor blush, but I’m pretty good at containing it in front of the kids. I’ll admit, I’ve let a few f-bombs drop recently, but in my defense, I really, REALLY meant it.] I urge her once more to divulge what he says, wondering to myself – What hasn’t the Nanny told me?!? Finally, understanding she won’t get in trouble, she breaks down.

“He talks about poop. You know: poo-poo, pee-pee, doo-doo, crap, poopin’ (her voice is starting to pitch. drastically – almost bordering on hysteria), CRUD, DIARRHEA, POOP TOWERS!!!” I lost it. In my head, I can imagine my naughty little blonde boy with his Mohawk and animated grin calling his sister a “poop tower” and wildly flailing his pop-tart about. I stifle a giggle, which actually ends up coming out more like a suppressed snort, as if I’m drowning in the front seat. Thank God she is so upset she doesn’t notice my blunder. Ahhh, my informant - this kid needs to lighten up & laugh at poop humor…she’s got the rest of her life to be a stuffy adult who can’t take a joke.

“Honey, honey – what on God’s green earth is a poop tower?” I ask as seriously as I could under the circumstance.

“Well, IT’S A TOWER MADE OF POOP, you know?! He’s …so gross!…like - who would live in a tower of poop? I don’t want to smell it!” At this point, I’m also picturing her displeased and motherly face – you know, everything I’m not at the moment.

Luckily, I’m able to hold it together long enough to find a parking spot. I open the door for her, “Come on, Poop Tower – let’s go get your hair cut,” I say as I take her hand. Wow. From the look on her face, I can tell who’s currently been relegated to the "poop tower" in my house. Nope…this is never going to get old.