Some questions don’t need answers

I was getting Tornado A dressed for the day in the boys’ room so I could “encourage” them to get dressed too.

Tornado E: Mommy, Tornado A has a little penis!

Me: Yes.  He’s a boy.

Tornado E: And it’s little!

Me: Yes. He’s little.

Tornado E: Do you think he likes his penis?

Me: As much as he likes his other body parts.

Tornado E: Do you think he likes to play with it?

Um. What?

Tornado E: I bet he likes to play with it.  Playing with your penis is fun.

Me: Tornado E, get dressed and brush your teeth.


Just some potty humor

I grew up with boys.  I thought it prepared me for having boys.  I was wrong.  There is so many things I didn’t know.  So many things that I never thought you would be said.


Tornado S: Mommy!  My penis is attacking me!

Apparently this means he needs to pee.


Tornado S: Mommy, my penis is sad.  When it’s little, it’s sad.


Tornado E: The reason I’m wet there (meaning the crotch) is because my penis got sweaty.  I am wearing sweat pants.


In a busy public bathroom.

Tornado S:  Mommy!  You pee from your butt!  Where do you poop?


Um, yeah.

Standing up and looking down

Exasperated.  I looked down at Tornado E in his shirt and underwear, lying on his back, playing with toys.

Me: Tornado E.  What toy did you put in your underwear?  Take it out.

Tornado E: (giggled) I don’t have a toy in my underwear.  It’s my penis!  It’s standing up!

If that wasn’t bad enough, a fully dressed Tornado S walked over and stood over Tornado E, looking down at him.

Tornado S: Hey, Tornado E!  My penis is looking down at you!

Oh, brother.  Help me.

How many penis rules do we need?

jc: I’m totally surprised they aren’t coloring their penises. I KNOW you have a rule against that somewhere around here, and I’m sure you would have mentioned it.

Have you met jc?  She’s the world’s best commenter.  She’s smart, hilarious, and gives out stickers.  For some reason, I amuse her, which I think is an honor.

Then she wrote that on Friday’s blog.

Apparently jc is clairvoyant as well as smart and hilarious.

First off, I knew there was trouble because Tornado E walked out of the bathroom grinning.  Grinning.  Second, I knew there was trouble because he was holding a marker, coming from the bathroom.   Just reread that last sentence again.  Did you get the chills?  Third, I knew there was trouble because he had already drawn all over himself.

Tornado E: LOOK!  (He pulled down his underwear to expose himself.)  I painted on my penis!

His testes were orange.

So many thoughts entered my head.


Why?  Why, for the love of God, would you color your penis?

You’ll make some frat very proud one day.

I wonder what kind of girl will be amused by this.

Oh, God, he’s going to tattoo his penis.

By the time they learn to  be modest around me, I’ll have written a hundred page manual of The Penis Rules.

Surely, he would stop

There was the post about Tornado E becoming a budding Casanova.  It was pushed aside for . . .

There was the post of Tornado E shaving his head.  It was pushed aside for . . .

There was the post where I nearly preformed an exorcism on Tornado E this morning.  It was pushed aside for . . .

I was outside holding Tornado A, talking with my 80 year-old, retired airforce officer neighbor, when Tornado S came prancing out of the house, down the drive-way in socks and his Ghostbuster t-shirt that he had pulled his arms inside the shirt.

Me: Tornado S.  Go inside and put on your pants.

Tornado S: I don’t know where they are!  They’re lost!  Forever!


The neighbor (chuckling): You must have to do a million things a minute, Fae.

Me: Yes.  Well, I’ve got to get Him inside.  Have a good afternoon.

The neighbor: You too, dear.

I walked down the driveway to where Tornado S was dancing.  I took his hand and led him up the drive way.

Me: Rules are rules, dude.  You are direct violation of Penis Rule #3.  No running outside nude.

Tornado S: I thought that was Rule #2.

Me: No, that is keep your hands to yourself and don’t touch other people’s privates.  (Which is violated often in this household.)

I walked into the house, released Tornado S, placed Tornado A down with some toys, went and found some new underwear for Tornado S.  I returned to the room, just in time to see Tornado S sprinting out the door to the garage.  I dropped the underwear and strolled after Tornado S because surely he’ll stop at the end of the driveway.

I walk out of the garage to see Tornado S sprinting down the street.

I couldn’t call out.  I couldn’t yell his name.  I couldn’t command him to stop, to come back.  I couldn’t use The Voice.

Because if I opened my mouth, I would have doubled over in laughter.

As it was, little bits of laughter were escaping my tightly closed lips.  I started to walk because I couldn’t run with laughter bubbling inside me.

Of course when he was three houses down, I realized I had to kick it into high gear.  I ran at full speed after the little streaker.  I wondered when was the last time I ran at full speed and realized it was nice to stretch my muscles.  Then I passed Tornado S, turned around, scooped him up, threw him over my shoulder.  I walked home.

The neighbor: (laughing) Fae, my dear, I think the young man is an exhibitionist.

Me: Unfortunately, all my boys are.

At least it makes life more entertaining.

I’m really starting to hate this

I grew up with boys.  I have two little brothers.  And not the ah-how-cute-Fae-gets-to-play-little-mother kind, but the my-little-brother-is-15-months-younger-than-I kind.  We could’ve been raised as twins, if my mom hadn’t been raised as a twin to her 13 month older sister.  (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Vatican Roulette is not a suitable birth control; someone please inform the men in Rome who apparently missed that biology lesson.)  Not only was I raised with two brothers, but the vast majority of my cousins are boys.  I spent weekends with my little brothers and my older boy cousins.  If that wasn’t enough, I was the only girl in the neighborhood AND my little brother, being the ever social butterfly, adopted his two best friends into our household, so the number of boys double to four.

So when it came to boys, I saw the good, the kind, the stupid, and the cruel.  And the gross.  From jock straps being sling shot across the room to bug eating dares to vomit stories (which I could now win, thanks to morning sickness) to smear stains (that was when I flat-out refused to do any laundry but my own) to gore movies to human body tricks, I’m pretty much ungrossed out.  (Except one thing, which will not be mentioned so that no one can ever use it against me.)  My god, I shared a bathroom with those four animals until college.  To keep from being a target of such grossness, I learned hold my own, like when my dad thought he could scare/sicken us to be better drivers by bringing home autopsy pictures, I examined them with glee.  My brothers turned a little green.  False bravado will take you far.

But even with all that preparation, that hardening of the stomach, I was nearly brought to my knees yesterday.  I decided to take the extra precaution to keep Tornado A asleep and use the boys’ bathroom.  I lifted up the lid.  To find sh*t smeared on the seat.  I dropped the lid and yelled “TORNADO E!”  even though he was safe at school.  Lucky.

Tornado E tends to wait on wiping himself.  I don’t understand why, but he does.  I have to remind him over and over and over.  Apparently the other day, he decided to sit on the edge of the seat to talk to his brother.  Before wiping himself.  Leaving, not a tiny smear, but a bunch of sh*t.

So I had a few options, trash the toilet (stupid rental), wait for Tornado E to clean it (how do I explain my son getting e. coli), con someone else to clean it (too bad my mark was in California, lucky bastard), or clean it myself (ah, crap).  Then I did what any parent would do.  I started to mumble curses under my breath as I stomped to the kitchen and grabbed all the cleaners.  I stomped back to the bathroom, mumbling more curses.  Then I sprayed and disinfected and scrubbed (with bleach wipes) until I took off all but the bottom layer of paint .  Mumbling more curses.

God, I hate potty training.


It was Tornado S’s first playdate.  And really it was mine too.  As I talk with the other moms at the Tornado E’s school at drop-off and pick-up, Tornado S has become friends with a little boy his age named G.

Last week:

G’s Mom: G, we have to leave to take you to school.

G: Mommy!  Can I stay and play with my best friend Torando S?

Who can say no to that?  So they stayed a little longer, and G’s Mom and I decided on a playdate for yesterday.

The boys had fun.  The moms had fun as we got to talk to an actual adult and she got to tell me all her excellent plans for her Halloween parties.  Soon time passed, and we had to feed our boys and put them down for naps.

As I loaded up Tornado A and finished my conversation with the other mom, the boys ran around an olive tree.  All of a sudden, G pulled down his pants and started peeing on the olive tree.

Me: Oh my.

G’s mom turned around, horrified.

Then I started laughing.

She started laughing.

Then G started shaking his hips, playing with the stream of urine.  We only laughed harder.  G finished and pulled up his pants.

Me: If that’s not a boy thing, I don’t know what is.

G’s mom: I blame it on my husband.  He taught G he could be outside in hopes to make potty training more fun.

Me: Like I said.  It’s a guy thing.

And then I proceeded to explain The Penis Rules and the direct violation of Penis Rule 3.

At least he’s polite

My boys LOVE sitting on the pot.  They would sit there for hours if you let them.  I believe this is my fault because I feign constipation from time to time to get a little quality time to myself.  Not that it works much, but at least, it’s something.  When I have a schedule to keep, this little meditation on the toilet can be irksome, especially when I can smell the poop already in the potty.

After checking Tornado S three times and tapping my foot, I got the all clear.

Tornado S: Mommy!  Can you wipe my bottom?!

I walked into the bathroom and was shocked by the giant turd sitting in the plastic bowl.  A man-sized turd!

Me: No wonder you took so long.  That’s a huge poop!

Tornado S: Why, thank you.

You might want to rethink that

I was getting ready for the day and went back into the family room in underwear and a shirt to see what the newest brotherly fight was all about.

Tornado E: Mommy!  How does your penis fit in there?

No one freak.  I prefer bikini underwear to thongs.

Me: Baby, girls don’t have penises.

Tornado E: How do they pee?

Hmmm . . . .

Me: Through their urethra.

The Husband: Just to let you know, Tornado E, boys pee through their urethras too.

Tornado E: Oh!  Mommy!  Can I cut of my penis so I can sit to pee like you?

Me: I think you might want your penis one day.

In fact, you’ll probably name it your favorite body part in eight years or so.

Tornado E: No.  I don’t want it.  Can I cut it off?

Me: Let’s wait until you’re a little older.

Underwear Problems

Me: Tornado S!  Time to put on your underwear.

Tornado S: Who’s on my underwear?

Me: Hulk, Cyclops, and who is that guy?

Tornado S: Spiderman!

Me: That’s right!  Now put your foot in.

Tornado S: No!  I don’t want them there!  I want see them!

Me: The pictures go on the back.

Tornado S: But I want to see them!

Me: Well, they’re suppose to be on your back to protect you from . . . um . . . behind.

Tornado S: They can go on the front and protect my penis!