A Whale in Your Tale

I got caught in a lie one day with my young son. Well, not actually a lie. I'd prefer to call it a euphemism. You know, a way to say something that is somehow unpleasant by glossing over the actual meaning. Please don't misunderstand, my intent is not to confuse or hide the truth from my kids. But on occasion I find it fun to add humor to the inherent unpleasantness of some bodily functions and generally gross behaviors. A lot of us do it, especially when talking to young ones, I think. But on this summer day, I learned that it can backfire, literally.

This particular incident happened when the kids and I were on our play set. To set the scene--I was struggling to balance on the two-person glider swing, a device clearly not intended for anyone equipped with anything larger than a toddler tush. Then out of nowhere, a funny, loud squirty sound (that would have made my Uncle Joe puff up with pride) came from my co-pilot son, followed by an over-the-shoulder glance and impish smile. "You got a buffalo in your britches?" I asked. (In our house when someone let's one go, one of us--normally me--poses this question, normally inserting whatever large creature comes to mind. Buffalo are a popular favorite, followed by dinosaur and giraffe--the larger the animal the better.) Of course, the stinky little man denied it, grinning like the Cheshire cat that he is.

After a short delay, he owned up to his rotten rear rip. Then after a short pause with furrowed brow, puppy-dog eyes, and tilted head he asks me in all seriousness, "So how DO the animals get up your beezer?"

Ugh. . . caught in my foolish fib, my tall tale, my cockamamy expression. I stammered. I winced. I tried to think quickly. So how do I explain the process of the ol' passing of gas to my preschooler? As I tried to imagine the internal human anatomy, particularly focusing on the guts and beyond, I couldn't help but envision a smiling, chubby rhinoceros staring back at me as it made its way through the intestinal tract.

"Well, honey. Actually there are no animals up there. It happens because, well, you see, they start when, well, it, I mean they . . ." How did they happen exactly?! There, I was just a hangin', trying to articulate just the right explanation, the perfect description of how a toot truly transpires. And I was a little stumped on what words to use, what details to share. How did I give an honest and informative answer after seriously confusing my sweet son? What would make sense to his young developing mind which I had previously supplied major misinformation?

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, while attempting to draw a few pitiful diagrams in the sand, he squealed with delight, "Gotcha! Mommy, I KNOW big animals don't come out of there!" now rolling in hysterics with his big sister who was also reveling at the idea of their mom squirming for an explanation.

I was reminded of a few good life lessons that day. Like my kids are smarter than me. It's good to laugh at yourself. Honesty is the best policy. So while I have not completely dropped my use of colorful accounts of certain foul functions, when someone lets one slip, I still stop short of asking "Who farted?" Which, truth be told, still somehow sounds more vile to me than having a mammoth pop out of your butt.

Love for My New Florist

I used to hate them, I mean absolutely abhor them, so much so I wanted to kill them every chance I could. I got such satisfaction when I ripped one up out of the ground--my unfriendly outdoor foe--the dandelion. Whenever I spotted one in our yard, I'd practically trip over myself to go grab the garden tool which twists the pesty plants up, roots and all. Heaven forbid if I ever caught one in my flower or veggie garden. Bye-bye, you good-plant-obliterating, water-stealing sucker!

But as with so many other things, one of my children has again helped changed my perspective and shed some new light. Since we have been staying at my husband's parents' house till our own off the mountain sells, we have not planted a full-size garden here, just some simple container planting to scratch the garden growing itch for now (and a pretty effective way to keep weeds at bay). However, I have been blessed with blossoms in a different way--a dandy way. Throughout this spring my son has been bringing me these large frilly yellow flowers that he finds. And he is so excited and proud each time he presents me with a dandelion. As his chubby hand grips each one, he announces "For you Mommy." Then he usually reminds me that he knows that they are my favorite color. And because of his gorgeous gifts, I have another favorite flower.

What's even better about this is that when I recently mentioned to him that "some people" actually consider dandelions to be weeds, he simply shrugged then said, "They're still pretty," and ran off to pick me some more. Oh yes, beauty can be found if you are willing and open to it AND choose not to let others define it for you.

So of course now whenever I'm out driving in the country or running downtown and see a patch of dandelions or even a single dandy bloom, I no longer feel ill-will but rather a big fat goofy smile emerge--yet another present to add to the growing heap that my children continue to give.

But what will I do next spring when we have our own yard and (YES!) our own gardens again? Hhhmmm . . . guess I'll be reading and rereading this blog post (and as a backup, hiding my cool weed tool in the shed from my sweet son).