Not sure if TMI Thursday already exists somewhere in bloggyland.
If it does, forgive me for my faux-pas.
And no, TMI Thursday won’t be weekly, I just liked the alliteration for my title.
I’m sitting cross-legged last night, watching Big Brother with my kids.
My 7 year old son, Terran, is laying in my lap.
A few minutes into the show, I start smelling something fowl.
My first thought, “He’s got a shitty butt.”
And normally, I’d say, “You’re butt stinks,” but he’s almost 8, so now the stuff I say may scar him for life. I don’t want to take that chance.
So instead I say, “As soon as the show is over, go have a shower. You stink.”
As previously mentioned though, he’s almost 8. So that means he’s getting smarter.
He replies, “Why are you so sure that tuna smell is coming from me?”
Casually, I bump him off me, and close my legs.
I sniff the air.
It still stinks.
“Sorry buddy,” I say. “I guess you’re right. That smell is not coming from your dirty butt.”
The show ends.
By this time, the smell of tuna is permeating the air.
I exclaim, “Ha! Your dad is making a tuna sandwich!”
I’m kind of brilliant like that.
We walk into the kitchen, and no tuna can, but instead Wayne is cooking fish.
Terran starts to laugh.
“See! It wasn’t my butt!”
I’m more relieved that it wasn’t me.