*totally those kind of balls
This weekend I took my daughters to Ben & Jerry’s, because I’m a kick-ass mom despite what that bitch Debra said. (Yes, I’m going to milk that one for the rest of ever.) My six-year-old asked me to read the flavor menu, which normally I wouldn’t do because these are teachable moments, and plus she can read. But the menu was sort of high up and all tricked out in fancy fonts so I indulged.
“Banana Split, Brownie Batter, Boston Cream Pie,” I recited, “Milk and Cookies, Mint Chocolate Chunk, Mud Pie…”
Jesus, kids, it’s ice cream, not your fucking burial plots.
“Phish Food, Strawberry Cheesecake, Schweddy Balls…”
“Sweaty balls! They have sweaty balls? I want sweaty balls!”
“They’re not talking about those kind of balls, dear,” I tried to say, but it’s kind of hard to talk when you just peed your pants in Ben & Jerry’s. “It’s Schweddy, named after a very famous–”
“Sweaty balls! Sweaty balls! We want sweaty balls!”
We got Cookie Dough cones (the chocolate-dipped kind covered with fucking rainbow sprinkles because I didn’t have the energy to breathe, no less say no to anything) and the subject was dropped.
Or so I thought.
Tonight, I was
bitching at asking the girls nicely to get ready for dinner when my savvy six-year-old stopped in mid-tracks, put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and stared me right in the eye.
“Why aren’t you doing what I asked?” I
hollered inquired sweetly.
“Sweaty balls,” she said.
I tried not to laugh but I suck at that, so instead I collapsed into hysterical fits.
“Sweaty balls, sweaty balls, sweaty balls!” she sang.
I may have been chanting “sweaty balls” with her, I’m not entirely sure. You know, because of the hysteria.
“I’m going to say that every time you’re mad at me, because I like it when you laugh,” she announced.
So now my six-year-old a) likes to chant sweaty balls, and b) is officially smarter than me.
You totally wish you were me.
(No really, you do. It’s really fucking fun at my house. It’s just too bad we’re all going to hell.)