Doody-head

We were met by my son's teacher yesterday at pickup time. She was concerned about the 'bathroom talk'. I was momentarily confused, then I realized that she was referring to my son's current raging case of 'potty-mouth'.

For the past week, my son has called everyone around him, including my cat Morris, a 'doody-head', a 'dookie', and other variations of the same. All Zane can talk about is the potty--what sits on it, what goes in it, etc. These are words that we do not use, and we naturally assumed that Zane acquired this new vocabulary from his social group. We get that. Zane is apparently at the age where it is developmentally appropriate to talk about poop with your peeps.

Larry and I have discussed Zane's behavior with each other, and with him, several times. We can't even bring up any of the words without Zane exploding in giggles. Of course, every time my husband hears the word 'doody', he giggles. He's like Pavlov's dog that way. I'm not much better, I must confess. I have to fight off the urge to snicker, and everyone knows that you can't be a stern disciplinarian and snicker. It's just not done.

While Zane's teacher was talking, what am I thinking about? I am the MOM here, after all! I should be thinking about MOM things, right? Am I considering all the possible consequences I can inflict on my child as punishment for his wayward behavior? Am I rifling through my assorted behavior management tricks to find just the right thing to nip this particular behavior in the butt? (Sorry. Could not resist.)

No.

All that was going through my head was the Babe Ruth scene from the movie Caddyshack. I nodded and tried to look concerned, while in my head I was seeing Bill Murray in the hazmat suit holding the offending candy bar.

"What was that all about?" Larry wanted to know when we finally got out to the car.

What could I tell him?

"Doody."