Avery is just getting over a week-long bout of some sort of sickness that made her not grumpy and quiet. It was a little piece of heaven, had it not been for the worry about her not eating and the expelling of the bodily fluids. All projectile-like from both ends.
And while I’d like to consider myself extremely mature and sophisticated; serving tea and crumpets to my stockbroker while we converse about…stuff…I’m out of grown-up words. Anyway, that’s sort of my point here. How the level of immaturity that emits from my pores surprises even myself.
After using the word “diarrhea” to describe the atrocity that was discovered after a particularly unfortunate night’s sleep, which required the laundering of Avery’s complete bedding and two (2) rounds of antibacterial Febrezing of every fibre of fabric in her room, Avery repeated the word with astounding accuracy. And being a red-blooded 8 year-old boy, I took advantage. I took advantage with a vengeance. I took advantage with a vengeance to the extreme. I took…well, you get the idea.
And I might as well add that I had an evil sidekick in this venture. An evil sidekick who may have even had the idea in the first place but we’ll never know for sure because I have the memory of a retarded goldfish.
GET. TO. THE POINT.
We taught our 19 month-old sick daughter the Diarrhea Song.
You know the one. Oh, yes you do.
When your sphincter makes a squeak and you feel something leak,
When you’re running through the door and there’s a splash on the floor,
well, you get the idea. That one.
Yeah, so we taught Avery that song. So what? And maybe even Eirinn, too. And maybe we even sing it to each other when there aren’t even any kids in the room. So what? Because maybe AH and I probably shouldn’t have had kids. At least not until we grew up ourselves.