I really wanted to write about what could easily be called The Best Aerobic Dance Class EVER. I’m not just saying that because I remembered the routine and did NOT mess up when the instructor forgot the moves and how I kept going and how the instructor was all “VERY GOOD EVAN” (that’s what she calls me and oh, how my heart melts when she calls me that) and how when we were finished with the dance, she turned, looked right at me, started cheering and said “BRAVO, EVAN!
BRAVO!
SWEET REDEMPTION.
God, how I want to tell you all about the class last night, but, man, I need to talk about my daughter.
Do you mind if I talk about my daughter?
I think she’s the most beautiful, loving, funny (She farts on command, people! Which reminds me, last night, my husband asked me to stop commanding her to fart because, apparently, one night when we were having a Farting on Command-athon, she “squirted” a little and when he went to give her a bath, there was a streak of wet poop in her diaper and GOD FORBID HE HAVE TO WIPE A STREAK OF WET POOP. Seriously, people, he asked me in a SERIOUS TONE to stop “commanding her to fart.” Ha! Ha! I love my life!) little girl I’ve ever known. I’m constantly in amazed by her personality and MY GOD, I love her.
I love her. I love her. I love her.
However! She’s turning into a stinkin’ little brat.
Funny thing is that whenever I mention this to people, their response goes a little something like this “Well, DUH!”
People say things like “of course she’s a little brat, she’s got all of you people spoiling her. How could she NOT be a little brat?”
The good news is that she is not an “asshole” brat. She’s more of a “throws herself back and screams in a high pitched voice when she doesn’t get what she wants” brat.
Come to think of it, she’s not really a brat at all, but more of an “overly emotional drama queen who refuses to keep her diaper on during naptime.”
(Can you tell I’m uncomfortable calling my Precious Daughter a “brat?”)
She’s always been prone to The Dramatics, but it seems to be getting worse.
(Bonus: The Dramatics: A slide show.)
Girlfriend gets pissed in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s kissing and hugging me, the next she’s trying to bite my finger off.
I think part of her “acting out” has to do with her inability to communicate what she wants. You see, my daughter doesn’t have a great vocabulary. It’s crazy to me and my husband because our boys were both early talkers. They were talking in complete sentences before they turned two. We get excited when G-Unit puts two words together. And they’re words that DON’T EVEN MAKE SENSE.
Let me give you an example of her vocabulary.
“DoeDoe”-Cereal (and yogurt)
“Beebee”- Blankie
“hmpeeet”- armpit
“duddee”- Duckie
“buhwhat”- Butt
“brubers”-Brothers
And so on and so forth.
Total improvement from her vocabulary of two months ago, which basically consisted of EVERYTHING (Except BOBS, DAD, MOM and NO) being called “DADA.”
This is how a conversation went back then.
Her:DADA!
Me: Blankie?
Her: NO! DADA!
Me: Crackers?
Her: No! DADA! DADA!
Me: Um, You want to color?
Her: NO! WAH! OMG! DADADADADA
Me: UM, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, CHILD OF MINE?
Her: pointing to the TV- DADA!
Me: Ohhhhhh! You want to watch TV?
Her: DADADADA!
You get the idea. It was maddening.
I’m sure if she could articulate her needs that she’d be less prone to do things like “bite her brother in the face” when he doesn’t understand that “DOODOOGOBODOBRUBBER” means “back the hell up and stop kissing me RIGHT THIS MINUTE!”
I’m not making excuses for her biting, because it’s unacceptable behavior, but! If someone was all up in your grill and you your jibber jabber couldn’t convince that someone to kindly remove themselves from your grill, wouldn’t you get frustrated at your inability to communicate your need for them to STEP OFF?
Or, maybe I am making excuses for her biting because having a child that bites is embarrassing!
My boys were NEVER this demanding, this dramatic, this… this… DIFFICULT.
Is it a “girl” thing? Is it a “last child” thing? Or is it just a “GABRIELLA” thing?
Or, perhaps it’s a “We’ve really turned into crappy parents in our old age” thing.
Gah.
Category Archives: Parenthood
I’m hoping to go deaf before they get to the part about “wet dreams”
A couple of weeks ago, my son announced that Sex Education was going to start and I needed to sign the permission slips.
I signed them without any hesitation because I was the ONE AND ONLY teenager in my class that wasn’t allowed to participate in sex ed. I’ll never forget how humiliated I felt when the teacher announced that I needed to leave because I wasn’t allowed to participate because MY PARENTS CHECKED NO.
Well, the classes started last week and let me tell you, I’m having a hard time with the whole thing.
Talking about sex with my boys when they were small was easy for me. But as they get older, it became more difficult because, well, you know, BONERS AND STUFF.
I have been asking him questions about The Sex Ed everyday because I want to be involved and in the know about what they’re teaching my son about The Sex. And also? I’m trying to pretend to be completely mature and NOT IN THE LEAST BIT UNCOMFORTABLE with the whole thing but let me tell you, it’s so completely uncomfortable. (For both of us.)
The other day, I picked him up from school and because I am truly trying to be “open and totally ok” with The Sex Ed, I was all “So! How was sex ed? What did you learn today?” And he was all mortified and turned white and said “It was totally gross and disgusting.” And I was all “Why!? What did you talk about it?” And he was all “Um, I don’t want to talk about it Mom.”
I honestly think he would have rather allowed me to stab him in the leg repeatedly with a #2 pencil then continue the conversation, but DAMMIT, I am an involved, open minded parent and I was not going to be shut out like that.
“Son, I’m your mother, there isn’t anything you can’t tell me. I already know everything you’re learning, so tell me.”
“Ok. We had to watch the movie about ‘girls.’ And we learned about, you know, tampons and stuff.”
At this point, I had conflicting emotions. I kind of wanted to throw up because OMG. VAGINA TALK WITH MY 13 YEAR OLD SON IS FREAKING ME OUT, but, I also wanted to be mature and matter of fact because VAGINAS ARE A PART OF THIS THING WE CALL LIFE.
I tried to be mature. I honestly did, but The Akward took over and I took the TOTALLY IMMATURE ROUTE. I started tickling him and saying things in a really high pitched voice like “HAHA! Andrew knows about The Period. TAAAAAMPPOOOONSS. WEEEEEEE!”
Can you feel the akwardness?
The next day, he stormed in to the house and said “MOM! Sex Ed is getting grosser by the day! Today we had to watch a baby be born.”
My first thought was “Holy SHIT! My son saw a V-A-G-I-N-A” and, again, I wanted to throw up, but this time I took the high road, people.
“There’s nothing gross about a baby being born son, it’s natural and a beautiful, spiritual experience that changes your life forever in the greatest way.”
I think he likes it better when I act 12 because the kid didn’t know how to respond.
“Whatever, mom. There was blood and amniotic fluid and um, mom…”
I panicked a little because, OH MY GOD! What if he’s about to say something really gross, like “And the womans vagina was all hairy” so I started thinking of ways to cut him off. Perhaps I could interrupt him by saying something really important, like, you know, “hold on, I have to fart!” but before I could interrupt, he finished his sentence with “And the baby looked like an alien.”
What a relief! I did not have to hear my son say “vagina”, but! I did have to hear my son say “HYMEN”, (As in “Hey, mom, is a HYMEN a male or female part, I forgot” to which I responded with a dry heave and a “Um, which do you THINK it belongs to” because um… I totally wasn’t prepared for him to blurt THAT out all non chalantly.)
Knowing that my son “knows things” now is effecting me in ways I never imagined. For instance, the other day, Tony and I were making out in the room and when he got up to go outside, I was all “OMG! You can’t go outside like that! Look! You can see your, um, you know, boner and ANDREW TOTALLY KNOWS WHAT THAT IS AND OMG. WHAT IF HE NOTICES?”
(True story! I actually freaked out about that. OH MY GOD. HELP.)
Perhaps I’d have a completely different attitude towards this whole “Discussing sex with my children” if my parents had discusssed sex with me. But, my parent did NOT discuss sex with me, except to tell me that you get pregnant by standing too close to a man and so I’m kind of lost as to how to not make it one big “HAHAH YOU KNOW WHAT A PERIOD AND A HYMEN IS” joke.
Titty Cheese.
Last night as I was nursing G-unit before bed, my husband asked me how long I was going to continue to nurse her.
“Why? Does it bother you that I’m still breastfeeding?” I asked him.
He said it doesn’t “bother” him, but he thinks I should stop at two years old. Obviously, it does bother him, or he wouldn’t have brought it up.
I’ve felt as though it was time to stop for awhile now. (Well, ever since she started getting all demanding about it.) I just haven’t had “The Heart” to stop. I know she’ll be devastated, but I also know that I can’t do it forever and that the longer I continue to do it, the harder it will be to wean her.
This morning, I made the decision to stop her morning “BOB” sessions. I was worried that All Hell Would Break Loose when I layed her in her crib without having given her The Bobs.
As I was getting ready to lay her down, she looked at me and said “BOBOHS? BOBS? BOBS!” I said “No BOBS, it’s time to go night night, ok?” She shook her head and shouted “NO! NO!” I felt like crying, I felt like I was being cruel. But, I stood my ground. “No BOBS, baby girl. It’s time to go to sleep.”
I hugged her, kissed her, layed her down and braced myself for the screaming that would surely take place as I walked out of the room.
To my GREAT SURPRISE, there was no screaming, nor was there any crying. Instead, she giggled and said “Bye Mom.”
Within 5 minutes, she was out cold.
Operation Phase Out The Bobs is in full effect.
I have mixed emotions about it. On one hand, I know that it has to end sometime and it feels like that time is now. On the other hand, knowing she’s my last baby, that the beautiful experience of holding my daughter while she drinks (Cheesy Version) the milk of my breasts (Non-Cheesy Version) my awesomely nutritious Tittymilk will no longer be a part of my life, knowing that this part of my life as a mother is coming to an end is hard to accept. It’s painful in ways that I never imagined.
I know some women who are THRILLED to be done with breastfeeding. They’re like “I’m SO over this! I want my boobs back!”
WHY CAN’T I BE ONE OF THOSE WOMEN?
Wait! I WAS one of those women when I was nursing my boys. Why is it so different this time around?
Why do I have to be The One Who Cries and Feels Guilty for quitting? THE GIRL IS ALMOST TWO! She has molars! And! She asks for them by name! And pulls up my shirt to check up on them. And then, kisses them and says “niiiiice boobies.”
It’s SO time to stop.
I just wish it wasn’t so damn hard for me. (Because, obviously, I’m the one with the problem here, since my daughter is snoring away, totally not upset at ALL about not having partaken of The Bobs. Which, I suppose I should be happy about! But, instead, I sit here slightly traumatized that SHE HAS CLEARLY MOVED ON.)
(I don’t blame her, she’s growing up and has more important things to do with her time, things like, you know, “Go Wee”.)
DUCK THIS, MOTHER DUCKERS
Yo. Internet. G-Unit here.
My mom has been dying to get on the computer all day long to tell you all about her BEAUTIFUL new look that her BEAUTIFUL friend, Joelle designed for her, but! TOO BAD, SO SAD for her because I am in Pure Drama Queen mode today and ha! ha! if you think I’m going to let her sit down for any length of time without having an Emotional Breakdown.
Also known as “A Tantrum”
Also known as “What makes My Mommy cry and say words that sound just like ‘DUCK!'”
Since I’m giving her a break at the moment (but, seriously, only because I must go find a place to hide to take a dump, which, only takes like 2 minutes… MAX!) she wanted to tell you that if can’t see the font on the sidebar and you are using Firefox as your browser, you need to download the most current version in order to see the site the right way. (You can find it HERE)
IF YOU CARE ANYTHING ABOUT HER, YOU WILL DOWNLOAD IT NOW BEFORE I THROW MYSELF BACK AND HIT MY HEAD ON THE WALL AGAIN, BEYOTCHES.
This is totally not funny AT ALL and yet HAHAHAHAH
Taking back The Titties.
My daughter has always been The Perfect Sleeper.
I’ve not talked much about it, only because I have friends who have problems with their children sleeping and I didn’t want to come off as bragging or rubbing it in their faces. I’m sensitive like that.
She started sleeping through the night at around 4 weeks old. At 5 months old, I stopped rocking her to sleep and let her cry it out. It took exactly 2 days and after that? I could lay her down, kiss her goodnight and within 5 minutes she’d be out for at least 9 hours. (I know people like to get all “high and mighty” about letting a child cry it out, but the way I see it? I did my babies a favor, by letting them learn how to go to sleep on their own. End of discussion.) She’s been sleeping through the night ever since AND she still takes 3 naps a day (at least an hour each).
BUT THAT ALL OF THAT HAS CHANGED.
And I blame The Bobs.
When I lay her down now? She starts screaming for me.
“MOM. MOOOOOM. MOOOOOOOOM”
Followed by “One More. One More.”
Followed by “Please? BOBS. BOBSBOBS PLEEEEAAAASE.”
The first night it happened, I made the mistake of going back into her room. As soon as she saw me, she started LAUGHING! Like, “haha, sucker, it didn’t take much to make you cave, did it?” Then, she reached for my boobs.
“One more?”
I gave in because, well, I was tired of the screaming.
Big mistake.
Last night, she pulled that crap again. And this, I put my foot down (and The Bobs away) and refused to go in there to get her.
Man, was she pissed. She screamed at me for a good hour. Then, she started screaming for dad. Then, for brubers. At first, it was funny. I mean, my baby girl, screaming for “One more Bob.” But, as 11 approached and she was still screaming, it wasn’t funny anymore. I began to feel desperate and it became very clear to me that “It’s time to stop breastfeeding.”
I don’t like the way she is demanding that I give her more and then holding my sleep hostage if I do not meet her demands.
I admit a big reason that I’m still breastfeeding her is due to my emotional attachment and very little to do with her needs. Knowing this is my last baby, that this is the last time I’ll ever be a “nursing mother” is hard for me to accept and deal with, so, I continue to nurse her.
But three nights of very little sleep due to a child who thinks SHE OWNS MY BOOBS AND THE MILK THEY PRODUCE and I’m thinking I may be ready to quit and to let The Tittymilk dry up for good.
I’m just not sure I’m prepared for the HELL that Gabby is going to put me through once I make the “No more BOBS for you” decision.
Miss New Booty
If you notice, I rarely talk about my “Parenting Style” here on my blog because a) who gives a shit, really. b) I don’t really have a parenting style.
I take a “Whatever works” and “Hey! At least I tried” approach to parenting.
I don’t read “parenting” books, nor do I read parenting magazines. I secretly kind of hate people who preach a certain style of parenting as if that’s “The Right Way”. I’ve never allowed other women to make me feel inferior because I don’t make the same parenting choices as they do.
I’ve been doing this “Parent Thang” for 13 years, (since I was 22 years old) and judging by The Greatness of my children, whatever it is that I’m doing is right because, man, I have some AWESOME children.
There have been times where I’ve felt at a loss for an answer to problems my children were facing. like the time my son had a cold and one night, felt like he couldn’t breathe and from that night on was convince he was going to DIE IN HIS SLEEP and, therefore, REFUSED TO SLEEP.
But, most times, I feel completely in control and know exactly what to do in any given situation.
“Gum in your hair? SHAVED HEAD FOR YOU!”
However, right now I’m facing a problem with my daughter and I’m at a complete loss how to correct this problem.
While I’m a little scared to ask The Internet for advice, I’m more scared of having to clean poop off of walls, so, I’m going to take the risk and ask for suggestions.
The problem?
Girlfriend likes to take her diaper off. And not just at naptime anymore! I’m constantly worried that she’s going to take it off when she has poop. So far, I’ve been lucky and I’ve caught her before she’s ripped off poopie diapers, but the girl is FAST and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. It’s like, I turn my back for one second and “Helloooo Pachina!.”
My first brilliant solution to the problem was to put a onesie on her anytime I was going to lay her down for a nap. It worked, until she figured out how to unsnap the buttons.
Now? There is absolutely NO keeping a diaper on her.
I’m THIS CLOSE to whipping out the duct tape because, remember, WHATEVER WORKS.
However, if you have any other suggestions, or, any theories as to why my child is doing this (because, surely it can’t be as simple as “She hates the feeling of the diaper and feels more comfortable naked!”) I’d love to hear them. None of my children have ever “played with poop” and I’d like to keep it that way.
You look like a monkey and you smell like one too.
I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. It was thirteen years ago today.
I was sure I was having a girl. My mom was sure I was having a girl. My entire family was sure I was having a girl. Everyone at my baby shower was sure I was having a girl and spoiled me with lots of little pink outfits and pink blankets.
After many hours of labor and over 2 hours of intense pushing, imagine our surprise when my first baby finally slid out of my vagina and the nurse yelled…”It’s a BOY!”
This is the conversation that followed.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Tony: Thank you JESUS!
Me: Ok, enough with that, Tony.
Doc: He SHOULD be thanking Jesus.
My mom: It’s a BOY??
Me: HAHAHAHA
Tony: Hallelujah. (Don’t ask. He was SUPER SPIRITUAL that day.)
Me: Tony!
Mom: It’s A BOY? Ohhhhhhh man.
Me: HAHHAHAHAH
My mom: What are you thinking right now, Y?
Me: About all of the clothes I have to take back!
Tony: HAHAHA
Mom: HAHAHAH
Me: HAHAHAHA
Doc: Did they TELL you it was a girl.
Me: No. I just thought it was.
My Mom: We HOPED it was. It was a hope.
Doc: Idiots.
Ok, he didn’t call us idiots, but you know he was thinking it.
I’m so glad it wasn’t a girl. The poor thing would have been named Whitney Elaine.
WHITNEY! Or wait, was it Soriah?
SORIAH GRACE! It would have been Soriah Grace.
She would have hated me at some point in her life.
It was a boy. A little boy.
I had a son.
A perfect, soft, scrunchy faced, precious little boy.
I’ll never forget how perfect he was the first time I layed my bloodshot, tired eyes on him. He had all of his fingers. All of his toes. Scrunched up little eyes, eyebrows shaped just like his daddy’s, a nose just like his grandpa’s. Fuzzy, black hair and full, perfectly shaped lips.
The first time I held him in my arms, I felt my heart explode into a million little pieces and I knew in an instant that it no longer belonged to me. That little boy in my arms was now the Owner of My Heart.
I can’t describe the pride I felt as I stared at his sweet little face. I can’t describe the love I felt as I kissed his fuzzy little head. I can’t describe the joy I felt as he wrapped his precious little hand around my finger. There are no words to describe it.
Amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Exciting. Beautiful. Astounding. Breathtaking. Miraculous. Marvelous.
Those are powerful words, and yet, they don’t even BEGIN to accurately describe what I felt in my soul on the day my son was born.
My son.
Nor or there any words that could accurately describe what I feel inside of my soul today. The day that beautiful little baby turns thirteen.
I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m overjoyed. I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m sad.
Bittersweet That’s the only way to describe what I’m feeling.
Last night, we had the Greatest Dinner Conversation Ever.
Shrinkage. Sweaty balls. (And what one must do to unstick that sweaty ball from ones leg.) How to release poops that are stuck.
We all laughed so hard we cried.
At one point, Andrew was taking a drink and as Ethan got up to demonstrate how HE deals with Sweaty Balls, Andrew spit his drink out and started choking from laughing so hard.
It was in that moment it hit me that my son is a teenager. And at that point, the tears from laughter turned into tears of sadness, because I don’t know if I can handle him growing so quickly.
First. The Hairy balls. Then, the Fuzzstache. NOW THE TEENAGE YEARS.
Girls. Dates. Dances. Getting jobs. Driving.
Time is moving incredibly fast and my heart hasn’t had a chance to catch up to speed.
That sweet smelling, soft, calm, perfect little baby is now a teenager who has an incredible sense of humor, who is witty, kind, respectful and thoughtful of others.
And as I watch him become a young man, I feel just as much pride as I did the first time I held him in my arms. I’m so damn proud of the incredible human being he’s become in the thirteen years of his life.
My God, I’m so proud of him.
And yet, at the same time, I wish I could shrink him back into that little baby boy who cooed, and cried, and sucked on his little fingers and wanted nothing more than to be cuddled safely in his mommy’s arms. Because as much as I love the person he has become, as much as I enjoy his company, as much as I enjoy every day with this amazing young man, my heart aches because I can no longer hold him in my arms and kiss him all over the way I did when he was just my little baby boy.
I wish someone had warned me about how much it would hurt to watch your children grow. I mean, it’s beautiful and wonderful and exciting… but it’s equally painful and sad. Because you there comes a point where you realize they will be independent adults and when you’ve spent your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE being “their mom”, the thought that one day they won’t need you in that way anymore is a crushing blow to your heart.
(Leave it to ME to make my son’s THIRTEEN BIRTHDAY a depressing event, rather than the joyous, exciting one it should be.)
This is what happens when you don’t discuss The Nasty with your children, people.
My parents never gave me “The Sex Talk.”
Sex was not something we discussed in our household.
Not only did they not teach me about sex, but they always refused to allow me to take the “sex classes” at school. Man, that was embarassing. I was the only one that wasn’t allowed to watch The Pube Videos. THE ONLY ONE.
I remember one time, my neighbor thought that it was her job to teach me about The Sex. She started telling me things, and my mom overheard her and commanded her to “get out of our house!”
On the way out, she started screaming “THAT’S RIGHT, Y, YOU GET PREGNANT FROM HUMPING!”
I wasn’t too sure what “Humping” was, but I remember feeling a little sick to my stomach.
“That’s not true, mom, right? RIGHT?” You get pregnant just by standing very closely to a man, right, RIGHT.
I remember saying those exact words. Infact, I remember how scared I felt, how freaked out I was, how I just wanted my mom to reassure me that HER AND MY DAD DID NOT TOUCH NAKED PARTS.
Now, this was my mom’s chance to tell me the truth. To give me “The Talk”. Her response?
“Yes, mija. That’s how people get pregnant.”
I’m pretty sure that’s the reason I HID from my first boyfriend after every church service. Because, like, he was always trying to stand close to me. HE WAS TRYING TO HAVE MY BABY and I wasn’t trying to have JJ’s baby.
Then there was the time I started my period at church. I remember going to the bathroom and Oh my GOD! There was blood. I got out of the bathroom and asked my friend to go get my mom and tell her that I started my period.
Now, this was another chance to explain “things” to me. To tell me why this was happening to my body and to calm any fears I had about blood coming out of my twat.
Her response?
“HOW DO YOU KNOW WHAT A PERIOD IS, LITTLE GIRL?” (Yeah, I got in trouble for knowing what “a period” was, which is almost as funny as the time I was “put on restriction” from talking on the phone with Tony at the age of 18 because I didn’t “properly roll my pads”)
Having children of my own, I completely appreciate how hard it is to talk to them about sex. Especially with boys. I want to run to my bed and curl up in the fetal position when subjects about sex come up with my boys. There have even been times where I just couldn’t bring myself to participate in the conversations. (And trust me, there have been MANY conversations…)
But, I know that as their parent, it is my job to teach them. I want to be honest with them, I want them to be prepared for the changes their bodies are going to go through, I want them to understand the urges they will feel. (AAAAHHHHHH) Because, I want them to be responsible and yes, I want them to wait until they are married or in a committed relationship. Sue me.
I mean, not everyone can be as sexually smart as I was and “figure it out without any education on the issue whatsoever.” Ha! Ha!
As my son gets older, I find it much more difficult to talk about these things with him. The other night, Tony and I were talking about this and I blurted out “OH MY GOD! WET DREAMS! WEETTTTTTDRRRRREEEEEAMMMMMSSSSS” How will I EVER be able to talk about that with my son?
I was like “Tony, does EVERY BOY GET THEM? Like, is it inevitable? Like, is it really going to happen?” (because, remember, I NEVER SAW THE VIDEOS)
I was hoping he’d say no! It doesn’t happen to all boys! But, that’s not what he said.
I could never be like that mother that was on the Dr.Phil show who LOVES to talk about sex (in very explicit, clinical terms) with her family.
“And in that position, the penis rubs against the clitoris, causing the woman to climax faster” She said at the dinner table, TO HER SON IN LAW.
I could never be “that lady.” Infact, what the hell is wrong with that lady? Talking about the clitoris with her son in law. NASTY WHORE.
If you’re a parent, what kind of approach do you use when it comes to discussing “The Sex” with your children? Are you honest and open about it? Are you more reserved like me and take the “just tell them what they need to know” approach? Do you use charts? Graphs? Videos? Books? Do you giggle when you talk about it? Do you make eye contact as your saying things like “The penis enters the vagina…” Do you feel like dying a little inside when your kid asks you questions?
I look forward to hearing how other parents have dealt with “The Talk.”
Perhaps a shower is in order.
Everytime I change my daughter’s poopy diaper, I make a big fuss about how horrible it smells.
I crinkle my nose up, start fanning my nose and say “Ewww, caca…ew”.
This morning, me and my daughter were laying on the bed, talking and being silly. I pulled her close to me to hug her and she unknowingly burried her face in my arm pit.
She pulled away, made a sour face, started fanning her nose and said “Ew… CACA… EWWW”
I think it’s safe to say my daughter just told me that my pits smell like shit.