Y’all, we’ve got a problem. And it sounds a whole lot like the word penis.
My two-year old has an incredibly expansive vocabulary. He’s both articulate and expressive. Long gone are the days when Red and I sat around the house cooing over every little monosyllable he uttered. Now we just want some damned peace and quiet every once in a while. And sadly, he seems to have inherited some of his mother’s OCD tendencies, because if I should (God forbid) point to a picture of a rooster and call it a chicken, he loses his everloving mind.
“NO!” he’ll insist. “Mama, that’s a ROOSTER. Roosters say cockadoo-doo.”
That diatribe is always accompanied by a look that clearly says get your shit together, woman. I’m not an imbecile.
He’s also amazingly adept at imitating all manner of sounds like some kind genetically enhanced myna bird. We found this out the hard way when he, ahem, started making noises that sounded a whole lot like a certain nocturnal activity pursued when a mommy and daddy really, really love each other. He demonstrated his new-found skill while I was on the phone with my mother.
I don’t have to tell you how much fun that little adventure was.
Despite having an advanced command of the English language (and some Español thanks to Dora the Explorer and her band of Mariachi Vermin), what comes out of his mouth doesn’t always match up to what’s going on in his head. And that, friends, leads to some awkward moments when other people aren’t familiar with the drunk-speak that is toddler vernacular.
Earlier today, we were watching the first Madagascar movie because a)it was the only kid friendly movie on TV at the time, and b)I’m a huge fan of the movie’s band of homicidal penguins because OMG SHENANIGANS. Boo must have picked up my particular brand of fangirl love for these flightless little murderers, because now he’s all, “I love the penis!”
Yeah. He loves the penis.
I know he’s trying to say penguins, but imagine what would happen if we were at a restaurant trying to enjoy a nice meal I didn’t have to cook and Boo told our low-rent Robert Pattinson sparkle vamp wannabe waiter about his love of the penis just as our queso slid across the table.
And to think, he’s only two. He’s still got sixteen years to embarrass us before we no longer have to claim responsibility for him. We’re screwed.
Edited to add: Can you imagine what kind of search engine traffic this post will generate? Mom+loves+penis? It’s like I’ve put out a permanent welcome welcome mat for teh KRAZEES.