Sometimes there is no point

We have a plastic doll named Bobby.  My mom got it for Evan before Sean came around, so I could teach Evan how we take care of babies.  You know, like being gentle.  The boys play with him off and on, but Bobby is still naked from when we taught him to potty in the potty.  Sean found him amongst the stuff animals and brought Bobby to me.

Sean: (holding Bobby feet up, pointing at the bottom) Poop!  Poop!

Me: You’re right, Sean.  That is where poop comes from.  (I turned the baby right side up.)  Can you say “baby?”

Sean: (flipped over the doll, pointing at the bottom) Poop!  Poop!

Me: Yes, that’s where Bobby poops.  (I took the doll and handed it right side up to Sean.) He’s a baby.  He’s name is Bobby.  Baby.  Can you say “baby?”

Sean: (flipped over the doll, pointing at the bottom)  Poop!  Poop!

Ok.  Right.  Moving on.

Me: Yup, that’s where the baby poops.

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Was that supposed to be a secret?

Ever have one of those moments when you know you just might have gone too far.  Or maybe it’s just me because I’m always chewing on my foot.  When I was young, I would cross that line and look back a mile later and say, “Crap, was there something I shouldn’t have said?”

There I was, standing in the middle of a ring of women, conducting a bridal shower game.  Now some of these women had known me since I was a baby; while, others were my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s friends, which I just met an hour or so before at the beginning of the party.  I was conducting the games because I could lead without stepping on any one’s toes.  We were playing a game in which everyone had to guess how many questions my sister-in-law would know about my brother, who had answered them the night before.  Questions included his favorite food, book, and such.  But we had a four-way tie, and I had to break it some how.  I had the winners guess if my sister-in-law would get the bonus question.

Me: What was my brother’s doll’s name?

A collective “WHAT?” settled over the room, except for those few women who knew my brother since he was a baby.

K: (didn’t blink) Buddy.

Me: (smiling) No.  Not his My Buddy.  His first doll.  The one he loved.

K: What?  He had another doll?

My mom: Actually, he had three.  The My Buddy.  A Wrestling Buddy.  And this one.

K: Then I don’t know.  I only knew of Buddy.

Me: You’re going with Buddy then?

K: Yes.

Me: It was Paula.

“WHAT?”
K: I’ve never heard that one.

Me: It was a boy doll, and T was only three or four.  But since I had dolls, he had to have one.  He begged and begged for one.  So that Christmas, one grandma got him a homemade boy doll, which he named Paula.  He loved that doll.

Then I remembered I was not alone with K, pouring over embarrassing baby pictures.  I was in the middle of ring of women.  Many of these women were friends of my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, my boyfriend’s girlfriend.  Now they knew he had a boy doll named Paula.  Good thing we don’t live in the same house any more.

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