His card is in the mail

According to my 3-year-old niece, “Princesses don’t dig at their butts or their privates…it’s bad manners.” Well, someone needs to explain this to my son (not it!) because he spent most of the day doing his best Al Bundy impersonation with his hand down the front of his diaper. I noticed that it was a little warmer in the house than usual, so after Suttie had soaked his second outfit with his Exorcist-style puking, I thought to myself, “I can either turn the air down and face the mutterings of my annoyingly cheap husband, or I can put a shirt on him and let him Porky Pig it for a while.” I chose the latter. Within minutes, Suttie’s hand was half hidden, resting comfortably underneath the waistband of his diaper with his thumb hooked around the edge. I don’t know what it is about males that program them to do this. It’s like their hands and their manly bits are magnetically linked to each other. The same mystery surrounds their obsession with peeing outdoors. I will never understand why men and boys alike refuse to pay homage to the wonder that is indoor plumbing. Instead, they insist on making the world their own personal toilets. One day, twenty minutes before our friends were due to arrive for a BBQ, I look out the window to see my husband standing with his back to me (thank God!) in what is obviously an “I’m writing my name in the grass” pose. This was only slightly more mortifying than when I caught him drinking a can of beer in the shower.

So, it appears that my son is well on his way to fulfilling the innate destiny attached to his Y chromosome. Between the farting in public, the fact that it takes him at least 30 minutes to work out a poop, and the vacant look he has when I’m trying to talk to him, he most certainly qualifies for membership in the boy’s club.