Despite my best efforts to avoid potty humor, the potty humor is alive and well. It is gross and it is constant and it is actually starting to really make me laugh, which means it will probably last for the next ten years. Also, no signs of slowing down on the sass front. We have a real, permanent firecracker on our hands.
Me: No mas, mijo.
Four-year-old Boy: Mom, why are you talking to me like that?
Me: Because if we ever move to Mexico, I want you to be prepared.
FYOB: That’s never going to happen, Mom. Too many elephants.
FYOB: Yep. (Shakes his head.) And human zoos.
FYOB: I like to eat my boogers.
Me: (Stares stonily.)
FYOB: (Deadpans right back.) They taste like roast beef.
(After letting out a Chris Farley brand of flatulence.)
Me: What in the world was that?
FYOB: Hmm. I guess they’re drilling upstairs again.
FYOB: Hey! This is the spot on the sidewalk where the throw-up is.
Me: Well, let’s be sure to avoid that yucky spot, please.
FYOB: It was right there, Mom! It’s GONE! It’s healed!
(While making a close inspection of my wedding ring…)
FYOB: You can just take this off and give it to me, Mom. It doesn’t look important.
Dad: Do you want to read a book?
FYOB: Sure. Let’s read a book called YOU ARE NOT THE BEST WRESTLER. (Attacks his father, declares himself THE BEST WRESTLER.)