My youngest son has to have surgery. Where, you ask? On a pair of very sensitive buddies that rarely see the light of day. His Wingnuts.
(Just reading that line probably made some man's buddies crawl back up where they started out)
I'm a fairly liberal mom when it comes to the human anatomy. After a husband and two boys, the Wingnuts don't hold a lot of mystery for me. They're just a fact of life, something to be wiped and powdered. (My boys, not my husbands. Just to clarify, he does his own wiping and powdering.) I've seen them jiggle as the boys flash through the house after baths.
Ho hum.
But I found myself today discussing my son's Wingnuts with more people than have even seen them, including the hospital staff when he was born.
At first, I tried to be professional and clinical. I used all the correct terminology. I primly crossed my legs and tried to look like talking about Boo's Wingnuts was something I did every day. (All the while watching out of the corner of my eye as he got his head stuck in the handrail of a stepstool.)
But I was secretly relieved when his surgeon called a spade a . . . ball. It was a relief to hear the common vernacular used instead of tapdancing around a sensitive subject. It was a release, a guilty pleasure.
Go ahead. try it. You can say it with me. Baaaaalls. Don't you feel better?
Even a very well educated doctor says it, so it has to be okay?
Right?
Baaallllls!
No comments:
Post a Comment