Several women in our community are what I would call true “Southern Ladies.” They radiate poise and graciousness. I have often said when I grow up, I want to be just like them.
Well, reality has set in. I must face the fact that if it hasn’t happened at 44 years-of- age, then it is not going to happen. This sad realization hit me when I chose my topic for this month’s column. I am quite sure none ofthepreviously-mentionedfine,Southern women would ever put something like what will follow into print.
In retrospect, I have covered several other topics in my column that would disqualify me from ever being considered a “Southern Lady.” Therefore, with out further adieu, let me forever solidify my place in the “impetuous woman” category and live happily ever after.
Well, reality has set in. I must face the fact that if it hasn’t happened at 44 years-of- age, then it is not going to happen. This sad realization hit me when I chose my topic for this month’s column. I am quite sure none ofthepreviously-mentionedfine,Southern women would ever put something like what will follow into print.
In retrospect, I have covered several other topics in my column that would disqualify me from ever being considered a “Southern Lady.” Therefore, with out further adieu, let me forever solidify my place in the “impetuous woman” category and live happily ever after.
Living with three young men has given me plenty of experience with “potty humor.” I warned you this is not lady-like material… For those of you unfamiliar with “potty humor” let me offer a brief description.
All bodily noises, smells, and items that emanate from orifices of the body are at the top of the list. Following in a close second — anything that resembles bodily noises, smells, or items that emanate from orifices of the body. If it’s gross then it is funny in my house.
Mothers of boys must surely feel my pain. If you are married, you probably feel my pain as well. My husband still finds flatulence funny, which just encourages the ridiculousness of my boys.
The dear women who have just given birth to a precious baby boy are thinking “not my child.” Enjoy that fantasy for as long as you can, because the first time he passes gas in the bathtub and makes bubbles, all hope is lost.
My dear sister was one of those “not my child” mothers. Bless her heart, she didn’t even want her boy to use the word “boogers,” much less show the slimy green thing off to friends.
All bodily noises, smells, and items that emanate from orifices of the body are at the top of the list. Following in a close second — anything that resembles bodily noises, smells, or items that emanate from orifices of the body. If it’s gross then it is funny in my house.
Mothers of boys must surely feel my pain. If you are married, you probably feel my pain as well. My husband still finds flatulence funny, which just encourages the ridiculousness of my boys.
The dear women who have just given birth to a precious baby boy are thinking “not my child.” Enjoy that fantasy for as long as you can, because the first time he passes gas in the bathtub and makes bubbles, all hope is lost.
My dear sister was one of those “not my child” mothers. Bless her heart, she didn’t even want her boy to use the word “boogers,” much less show the slimy green thing off to friends.
One day I asked her what we were supposed to call them. She informed me they could be called “nasal secretions.” Yeah, right.
What her son called them should have been the least of her worries. My children were experts at giving lessons in chasing someone around the house with a “nasal secretion” on the end of theirfinger.
They also took pleasure in determining who could sneeze the most “nasal secretions” on the other. Many times, I have panicked watching one of my boys race across the house. I was sure something must be terribly wrong due to their urgency.
To my great relief and disgust, I would hear an enormous sneeze followed by lots of laughter. Someone had just been showered with… let’s be honest… “snot.”
Now, these same young “men” — who laugh hysterically at anything disgusting –continually tell me how grown up they are. I am informed almost daily of their age and their need for more independence. I am accused almost as often of treating them like babies and interfering with their lives.
Now these same independent, self- sufficient “men” still need their mamma to buy their groceries, cook their meals, make their doctor appointments, wash their clothes, and make sure they have soap, shampoo, and toilet paper.
Well considering how well they relate to “potty humor,” I have come up with what I consider an appropriate response to all this “I-am-a-man-now business.”
My response: “As long as I still buy the toilet paper that wipes your behind, don’t tell me how grown up you are.”
What her son called them should have been the least of her worries. My children were experts at giving lessons in chasing someone around the house with a “nasal secretion” on the end of theirfinger.
They also took pleasure in determining who could sneeze the most “nasal secretions” on the other. Many times, I have panicked watching one of my boys race across the house. I was sure something must be terribly wrong due to their urgency.
To my great relief and disgust, I would hear an enormous sneeze followed by lots of laughter. Someone had just been showered with… let’s be honest… “snot.”
Now, these same young “men” — who laugh hysterically at anything disgusting –continually tell me how grown up they are. I am informed almost daily of their age and their need for more independence. I am accused almost as often of treating them like babies and interfering with their lives.
Now these same independent, self- sufficient “men” still need their mamma to buy their groceries, cook their meals, make their doctor appointments, wash their clothes, and make sure they have soap, shampoo, and toilet paper.
Well considering how well they relate to “potty humor,” I have come up with what I consider an appropriate response to all this “I-am-a-man-now business.”
My response: “As long as I still buy the toilet paper that wipes your behind, don’t tell me how grown up you are.”
They hate it when I launch into my little toilet paper triad. But seriously, I have been keeping their behinds clean in some way or another since the day they were born. The way I see it, until they are the only ones responsible for having a roll on that holder at six in the morning, they still have some growing up to do.
I have even pictured the moment in my mind when they will realize they are a “man.” It will go something like this: they will wake from a sound sleep, stumble to the bathroom, have a seat, do their business and reach for the toilet paper — only to discover it is empty. Then they start to call for mom and realize they are in their own home.
Perhaps then they will remember those endearing words from dear old mom, and think, “now I am a real man.” They will, of course, need to solve their dilemma on their own and get to the store!!!
Now that’s “potty humor” even I will find funny. I suppose that’s why my “Southern Lady” friends call me “high- strung and colorful.”
I have even pictured the moment in my mind when they will realize they are a “man.” It will go something like this: they will wake from a sound sleep, stumble to the bathroom, have a seat, do their business and reach for the toilet paper — only to discover it is empty. Then they start to call for mom and realize they are in their own home.
Perhaps then they will remember those endearing words from dear old mom, and think, “now I am a real man.” They will, of course, need to solve their dilemma on their own and get to the store!!!
Now that’s “potty humor” even I will find funny. I suppose that’s why my “Southern Lady” friends call me “high- strung and colorful.”
