Nicknames and such

This is a conversation My Honey and I overheard from the backseat today. I swear to Zeus with my right hand raised. I testify because I know you think I make this stuff up. I don’t. I’d never make anything up this good.

“I call my butt Bob,” The Bandit told his sister. My Honey and I tuned in at this point so we don’t know how the conversation wound it’s way to the naming of body parts. I don’t know about you all, but we found “Bob” to be rather uninspired.

Sassy laughed. “That’s weird, dude.”

“Guess what I call my wiener,” he said. Eyebrows were raised in the front seat and My Honey and I glanced over at each other. I didn’t know what to say. Shouldn’t a mother discourage this kind of talk? I’m sure a good mother would, but I wanted to know the answer.

“I call him Larry.”

Now everyone in the car is laughing. Larry? Really? I didn’t know six year old boys named their “wiener”. Having a son has enlightened me in innumerable ways.  Even in only six years I have learned more about boys and men than I ever would have expected in such a short time.

At least I can’t say they’re boring. I’m often amazed with the wit of the things they say. Now as my children are growing up and getting their own personalities, I love their jokes and zingers.

My friend, Kurt, texted me tonight a good one from his boy. His son is called TJ and the kids on his new hockey team asked him what the initials stood for. He told them Tinfoil Johnson. HA! That’s pretty damn funny.

I have no idea what he calls his wiener and I’d just as soon keep it that way.