Code Word: Chicken

Who knows how we get to where we are? I am where I am, ya know, and right now I’m at a place with the code word “CHICKEN.” So when I say, “I’m calling CHICKEN,” it means I have heard the word butt, fart, wedgie, or whatever else nine-year-old boys think is hysterical too many times and my head’s gonna pop off if I hear any more potty talk.

Last night we are getting ready for bed and I hear, “Fart . . . fart . . . fart fart . . . we take the farts . . . fart” as Michael and Mason are jumping on the bed. I’m like “Oh good God, please make it stop.”

I remove my toothbrush from my mouth and yell from the bathroom, “I’m calling CHICKEN!”

Michael whizzes in like the tornado of energy that he is and exclaims something to the effect of, “Mommy, I’m creating a machine that harnesses all the fart gasses of the world and there’s going to be a double door biodome and anyone who wants to commit suicide can just walk right in.”

“Oh, is that all?” I’m going to stay focused on the potty talk and postpone the whole “suicide dome” thing for another time. Hey, I don’t have a code word yet for suicide biodomes, who knew I’d ever need one. (Please note: This is a story from a year ago and we have made it successfully through that suicidal time.)

Back to the potty talk . . .

There’s a book series that is helping to create all of this potty talk in my home right now, and it’s called Captain Underpants. I actually tried to ban Captain Underpants from my home, but that didn’t work out so well. So I told my sons, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” There’s this guy you see, his name is Dav Pilkey, and he’s the character who has created the Captain Underpants series, which feels like the bane of my existence. “Tra-La-Laaa!” my ass! I want to create a Dav Pilkey voodoo doll and prick him in the bottom when I’m fuming about my life. (Please note: I have come to live in peace with Dav Pilkey, and I’m committed to NOT getting a voodoo doll for him or anyone else.)

And then because of the intention of Michael’s double-doored biodome, I want to do research on Kevorkian assisted suicides and see how far that’s come along. And then I get to thinking that I need to SNAP OUT OF IT WOMAN! GET HOLD OF YOURSELF! He’s never going to really make the Fart Biodome so you really have nothing to be afraid of in this moment. The technology is simply too advanced and the practicalities of harnessing fart gasses is too extraordinary to even imagine. I continue to speak to myself in different inflections. “Just finish brushing your teeth and this too shall pass.” (latest one is country drawl). Maybe I need to pull out my cape and scream “I GOT THIS!”

Whatever the case, it’s bedtime.