Thursday, November 17, 2011

Tatas and Dingles

Ice Princess is bone tired. In fact, her bones are jello and muscles shriek at the mere suggestion of bending or squatting. I had to sit on a foot stool last night to pack up part of the kitchen. As always, when I’m this kind of tired, completely inappropriate things make me howl with delight. Prepared to be horrified.

I know I’ve mentioned toilet talk at the table on several occasions. Despite the fact that I can remain on my fat ass while looking, I’m too tired to search the blog. Again, where are those fancy tags all the other bloggers use… sigh… Back on topic, certain behaviors are ok at our table when we are in the privacy of our own home. The girls are taught to behave with company or out somewhere, but we can let fly when it’s just us.

Normally it’s just the girls for dinner so we talk about all kinds of crazy things. One night last week, EN happened to be home with us and for some crazy reason the term “bodacious tatas” popped out of my mouth. Sugar and Spice were delighted with this gem. It has a nice ring to it, yes? So we discussed bodacious tatas while EN quickly left the table with a full plate of food, which he hurriedly shoveled into his mouth before escaping to the basement. Before long, I’d say “bodacious” and the girls would say “tatas” in sing-songy voices, without rehearsal!

A few days later, tensions are high and we all need to be a thousand places at once. Everyone was fighting with everyone else and it wasn’t pretty. We were driving warp speed down a dirt road to get to Home Depot and I said, “This road is so crazy my bodacious tata’s are bouncing all over.” As you might guess, the tension was broken and we all laughed hysterically. Then it was time for another round of me saying “bodacious” and the girls singing “tatas.” We’re totally trying out for American Idol this year.

On Sunday, the girls and I headed off to my parents’ house in the invisible Jeep and I got cut off. Again. Because I’m such a good mother and conscious of my potty mouth, I called the other driver a “dingle dork.” Another gem apparently. The rest of the ride was filled with the girls calling each other the name and then it seemed to be forgotten.

Last night I was putting the girls to bed when Spice made some weird wavy movement with her hand in the area of her crotch.

Spice: Hey Mama, see my dingle?
Me: Your what?
Spice: I’m a boy and I have a dingle. See it?
Sweet Jesus.
Me: They aren’t called dingles. They’re called penises, remember?
Spice: Oh yeah.

I thought that conversation was over and moved onto Sugar’s room after tucking my sweet angel in. I was with Sugar for only a moment before Spice came racing in doing her Penis Dingle paso doble. She was anxious to show her sister her “dingle dance.” I reminded her again that there’s a proper name, just like girl parts have a proper name.

Spice: Yeah it’s called “your privates.”
Me: No, it’s called a vagina.
The dance screeched to a stop.
Sugar: Yeah, it’s a vagina and it’s gonna start bleeding and not stop until you’re really old. Like 50.

My little dancer bolted back to her room like her fake dingle was on fire. I shushed Sugar and told her to stop scaring her sister.

And there you have it. Toilet talk at the table and at bedtime. Only at my house.

Ice Princess 

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