This morning I pulled out of the driveway with the kids. As we often do, we said goodbye to the cat.
“Goodbye Doodee” I called. (Don’t ask why we call our cat Doodee. I blame my husband.)
“Goodbye Doodee” said Will.
“Goodbye Poophead” chimed in Sydney.
I giggled. Great, no wonder the kid says poophead. She gets a reaction from me!
Will got mad. “Sydney, I’m gonna call the police because you said that. You’re a very bad girl.”
To which she replied, “Poophead!”
“Stop it, Sydney! I’m gonna put you in time out!”
“Poophead!”
And round and round they went.
I’m not sure whom I’m more proud of: Will for knowing the rules about potty talk, or Sydney for being smart enough to know how to get a rise out of her brother. Of course, it’s not like they are arguing over quantum physics, so perhaps my pride is a little misplaced. And when potty talk comes up at Sydney’s teacher’s conference, I’m sure I’ll feel like a bad mom. But then again, I might giggle a bit, too.
