So this morning the middle child, hereafter referred to as “the middle child,” woke up all giggly and came into Grone Up Land to roust me and the wife out of bed. I mean, it was already like SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING ON A SATURDAY, get up already! Guy!
Anyway she clambered up onto the bed and thrashed around singing and cajoling The Lovely Rhonda. Because she is a long, skinny insubstantial child, I actually mistook her for one or both of the dogs. Until I heard her say:
“Debra’s butt is making music!”
I am reasonably sure that I would not hear this out of one or both of the dogs, not without powerful mind-altering substances on board. And we rarely let the dogs engage in that kind of thing.
At any rate, TLR and I both laughed and I was promptly accused of cutting the cheese, which I denied. And then she said it again: “I hear Debra’s butt music! It sounds like a guitar!”
As God is my witness, I have no idea what she was talking about.
TLR said, “Debra’s butt isn’t making music!”
“Sure it is,” says I, “Come on over and listen to it!”
But no, the wife is slightly too savvy to fall for that. Which is probably just as well since I didn’t really have anything at the ready.
So all day the middle child keeps sidling up to me and saying, “Let me hear your butt song!”
I keep protesting: “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A BUTT SONG!”
The youngest has even taken to pressing her ear to the side of my buttock.
Eventually she may come to regret this. Just sayin’.