One of these days I'll write a serious post again, with salient points about life and motherhood and all that, but now isn't the time.
On Tuesday I was at my parents' house with the boys. Mom & Dad were off somewhere, so we had their house to ourselves. I was in the kitchen (probably raiding their fridge), when my 8-year-old began giving a piano concert in the next room.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," he began in a booming announcer voice, "WHICH SONG WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR? JOAN FITZWALTER OR I HAVE GONE TO THE BATHROOM TODAY?"
His imaginary audience made the obvious choice. The tune of I Have Gone to the Bathroom Today faintly resembled She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain. The piano accompaniment was wildly experimental.
"Thank you. THANK. YOU. NOW WHICH SONG WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR? JOAN FITZWALTER OR IS DIARRHEA THE PROBLEM?'"
By this time I lay doubled over the kitchen counter, tears streaming down my face, laughing silently and scribbling down every word he said. If I laughed out loud, I couldn't scold him for potty talk.
"THANK YOU VERY MUCH!"
I never got around to the scolding. Laughing that hard made me feel too good.
