I hate going to swim class.  So does Girlfriend, incidentally, which is why it’s so very easy to stay home instead.

Speaking of Girlfriend, I have Mister Bubby to thank for teaching his baby sister the word “crotch.”  It’s not like it’s a bad word or anything…exactly…but it’s still disconcerting to be changing a diaper and hear this sweet little-girl voice protesting, “No!  Not my crotch!”

It’s kind of funny, sure, but at the same time, disturbing.

Seriously, how many words out there are grosser than “crotch”?  Insert disgusted emoticon here.

As long as I’m being disgusting, I’m going to say that I’m losing my patience with Elvis’s joke-of-the-last-six-weeks-or-so, which is him saying that he’s going to poop in various places or on various items.  This is partly my fault, I’m sure, because in an effort to stop saying, “Crap!” so much around the children, I started saying, “Poop!” instead–which is not, technically, much better, except that it sounds better to hear a kid repeat the word “poop” than it is to hear him or her repeat the word “crap”–but because it’s not remotely satisfying to say, “Poop!” when I’m upset, I had to embellish it somehow, and I ended up saying, “Poop in a bucket!”–because “poop in a bucket!” is much worse than just regular old poop, thus conveying the serious nature of my annoyance.  Anyway.

So Elvis started repeating “poop in a bucket,” which was…not as bad as him repeating the “crap!” thing, but still not good, especially when he would say it out loud in church while the sacrament was being administered.  So, okay, I have stopped saying, “poop in a bucket,” but Elvis has not.  More to the point, that is not his only catch phrase–and here is where I take some of the blame off of me and spread it around to Mister Bubby and also Sugar Daddy, for that matter, because they are always talking about poop in places where it ought not to be.  Thus Elvis walks around all day, threatening to poop in the trash can, poop on the floor, poop on the toys, poop on the paper, poop on the tricycle, poop on the telephone, poop on the computer, poop in the bookcase, poop on the piano, poop on the spaghetti, poop on the magazine rack, etc., etc., usw.

The other night he woke up wet because his pull-up had leaked, and the whole time I was changing his bed, he would just lazily murmur, “Poop on the sheets…poop on the training pants…poop on the shoes…” even though there was no poop on any of those things.  It was all just talk.

“That’s enough,” I said, as I tucked him back in to his dry, never-pooped-on bed.

“Poop on the enough,” he said.

Yeah.  Whatever.

Now I really have to go to the swimming pool.  Which I originally typed as “poop,” just so you know.  That’s what my life’s about, kids.  You should be grateful I don’t blog more often.

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