August 19, 2009
Kim is getting a bit weary of the boy stuff. The regular boy stuff, like burping, farting, stinking, that kind of thing, she handles pretty well, considering there are three and a half of us in the house (Maddy is half boy, at least by that standard).
But the more deeply ingrained boy stuff, she’s getting tired of. You know. Like, where boys tend to keep their hands when all they’re wearing is their underwear. And thus they don’t have any pockets. And their hands, which don’t comfortably float in the air but rather need a comfortable resting place, tend to come to rest in the next best thing to pockets. Namely, the inside of the front of their underwear.
You can see how she might object.
So the other day she objected. To Ian, in particular, since he was the offender of the moment.
“Please,” she said. “Just stop it. Put your hands somewhere else.” (Though, really, WHERE? Floating?)
And Ian, showing his brilliant resemblance to the quick thinking deal makers of history, countered.
“Okay. I’ll make you a deal. I will stop resting my hands there if you and Dad never kiss in front of me again.”
Without even hesitating, Kim took that deal. Small price to pay I guess.