Sunday, August 23, 2015
Poop and pee.
The canary, a little technological joy that chirps happy birdie songs and also repeats whatever is spoken to it, was actually a Christmas gift for Bryce last year. How fun it was and is to have it repeat poop and pee and even a few frickin' this and frickin' that for good measure (no thanks to me).
So of course it was the perfect party companion for Bryce's big 5th birthday Barbie bash extravaganza.
"Take the potty talk upstairs," said one of girl's mom, and the girls were gone, with most of the others following closely behind.
"Daddy, go upstairs and watch them," said the Mama.
Slowly I climbed the stairs. The bedroom door slammed shut and startled me, but the dissonant howls still escalated to a fervorous crescendo.
I made it to the doorway, opened the door and there they were -- manhandling the poor little bird, forcing it to say "poo-poo and pee-pee" over and over again in various iterations and kiddie dialects.
Thank goodness I was drinking wine. Some of the other little girls watched the potty talk in horror as if the tainted mantra would open up a dimensional doorway to hell. They looked to me empathically for intervention.
"Girls, keep your voices down and please keep the door open," I said, and then I went back downstairs.
My work here is done, I thought.
Hours later after everyone was gone and we were getting the girls to bed, Beatrice made a magical observation.
"We're not going to be grownups for a long time. We still have years to be a kid."
Frickin'-A, baby. Frickin'-A.