Emily Post I Am Not

It's a new year, and I feel that I should have some thoughtful, thought provoking post. I do not. I have spent the afternoon in the good company of a two and a half year old boy. Who, despite all efforts to the contrary, finds that his bodily functions provide the most entertainment of all.

We try to teach him manners. "Please," "thank you," and most important for a little man, "pardon me." This week, he had a playmate for a day-- a precious little girl. At the park, he told his 'Sisa, "I let lady go first," as he waited patiently for his friend to go down the slide.

And then, he spends the afternoon with his mommy. Emily Post, I am not. I tend to turn off my censor when I should leave it on. But, I'm prissy. I do not laugh at potty humor. Or, I didn't. Until I had a boy. I try not to laugh. I hide my smiles in my sleeve.  But, somehow, R.J. always knows.

"I tooted!" he trills triumphantly. And the giggles begin. And I smile. And then a giggle escapes. Before I know it, the two of us are snuggled in the rocking chair laughing hysterically. At potty humor. What has happened to me?

What is it about this little stinky man that can take me from uptight prissiness to an uninhibited pile of giggles? R.J. and I have a running dialog about toots, poots, and pees. The same dialog in a PG-13 movie would have me fast-forwarding or find me in another room with a book.

He's good for me, I suppose. A little potty humor never hurt anyone--least of all a mommy.  If I didn't have a sense of humor about it, I'd be in tears.  R.J.'s sweet: he thanks me for changing his dirty pants and gives me sugars in exchange for a fresh Huggie.

So, for tonight, I've given up enforcing the "pardon me's" and the "excuse me's." Tomorrow we'll start again, but tonight, I'm enjoying being ten again.