(Please recall, if you will, that my motley crew and I happened to be dining in a rather swank establishment, where I was appalled YET AGAIN by the uncouth nature of mealtime discussions). That said, shock value rules…
“Mom, Taylor needs you in the bathroom.”
“Whatdaya mean she needs me?”
“You know, Mom. She neeeeeeeeds you. Plus she said the toilet might overflow.”
Of course my mind played worst case scenario (as it does so capably), racing forward to the hideous spectacle we’d become should such a foul catastrophe actually occur. I pictured the crowd, agape and aghast, their satiny napkins clutched in horror, silverware and China clinking and clanking as patrons pushed and shoved to escape the river of repulsiveness snaking its way across the floor where we dined.
Fortunately, it wasn’t our day to be a spectacle. I mumbled a small prayer of thanks into the folds of my napkin upon my return from the restroom. Yet another crisis averted. But the boorish banter at the dinner table continued.
“Dad, Mom took us to see the coolest thing this morning before we got on the bus! It was a DEAD BIRD! A DEAD BABY BIRD! I wanted to touch it, but she wouldn’t let me so I just poked it with a piece of grass. I even blew it a kiss! I could see its little beak and grayish feathers and everything! It was SO cool! Jack tried to eat it, you know. Mom said he rolled around in it later—which is just plain gross. Why do dogs do that anyway?”
Of course, this handily surpassed another mealtime discussion we had had about dog poo in recent months. “Dad, Jack made a little sculpture with his poop today! I call it the Leaning Tower of Poop! I told my art teacher what he did and she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. It was SO funny! Mom should really take you to see it before it tips over. It’s like a real tower you know.”
Prior to that, the worm discourse had comfortably held the top spot. “Dad, I’m saving every little wormy I find outside,” one of my weirdish children announced with pride as she delved into a bowl of spaghetti. (Gag me!)
“They’re part of my special collection,” she added. “Just like my rocks (Lord, how could we forget her dear rocks?!). So I’ve started putting my wormies in a big bucket in the garage. It’s their worm bed, Dad.”
“And guess what,” her partner in weirdness chimed in. “One of those guys pooped in my hand and it was DIARRHEA! Ewwwww!”
Like I said, I’m often appalled by that which is deemed newsworthy at the dinner table. Indeed, shock value rules—now and forever.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live.
Copyright 2010 Melinda L. Wentzel