Yesterday we went to a 50’s diner, and on the way out, my dad put the boys in a coin-operator rocket, circa God only knows. As the rocket bounced around like a mechanical bull, I watched the boys, wondering if the fries, chicken nuggets, and chocolate milk shake were about to make a reappearance. Tornado E looked especially sick as he was already running a mild fever.
When the boys were hauled out, poor Tornado E held his crotch. My mother looked at him with concern.
Grandma: Tornado E, sweetheart, are you ok?
Tornado E: Grandma, it hurts!
Tornado E: Here. (He pointed to his crotch.)
Papi: Want to ride again?
Grandma: I think he hurt his testes.
Tornado E: I hurt my testes, Papi! Let’s ride again!
At this time, I was doubled over in laughter to my mother’s disgust as she shot me dirty looks over Tornado E’s head. I got control of myself, straightened up, and wiped the tears out of my eyes.
Me: Tornado E, love, we’ll come back it do it another time.
This morning. My BFF (How cool does that sound? And a million teenagers roll their eyes.) had taken pictures of the rocket ride and was showing Tornado E the pictures on her camera.
Tornado E: And there’s the yellow rocket where I hurt my testes!
Nod if you think Tornado E will say that every time we visit that diner.