He's all boy

** Warning: this post is fairly disgusting, because boys are fairly disgusting. Don't read while eating. **

Having had a boy, I guess I should have known this was coming. I just didn't expect it so soon. Jack recently discovered the comedic value of certain bodily functions.

It started last week. I think he'd been fighting a bit of the stomach bug that has been going around. After a particularly, uh, productive day, diaper-wise, I heard a little toot emanate from him. I asked him if it was just a regular toot or a "poopy toot." Well, there was something about the phrase "poopy toot" that caught his fancy. He's been saying it all week, "Poopy toot, poopy toot." Whenever he has to do anything in that area, he announces, "Poopy toot!" If he's sitting, he'll raise himself off the seat a little to get some room. He then lets loose and laughs and laughs and laughs. And then stops laughing long enough to try to do it again.

The other day I burped, and he thought it was hysterical.

"Again!" he squealed in delight.

No more soda for Mommy.

On Friday, we were at the house of our friends who have a little dog. The kids went out to their backyard to play. When we peeked out to check on them, I heard Jack saying, "Poop! Poop!" as he held up something in his hands. He had picked up some dried dog droppings he found in the yard and had them clenched in his little fists.

My inner self wanted to, in roughly this order 1) scream, "OH MY GOD!!! DROP THAT THIS INSTANT!!!" 2) vomit 3) turn the hose on Jack while using a mop to wipe him up so I wouldn't have to touch him 4) vomit again 5) throw him in the tub and dump about a gallon of soap on his hands 6) dip him in a vat of bleach then 7) dip him in a vat of rubbing alcohol then 8) call Tom to come get his son while I checked into a hotel overnight so that I wouldn't have to touch hands that just held dog-doo.

Suddenly, the obsessive hand washing at the Children's Museum wasn't looking so bad.

But my friend, who is so laidback and unflappable, just told Jack to throw the poop on the grass. She helped me herd him into the bathroom where we made sure he thoroughly washed his hands. (I was also making sure he touched neither his face nor his mother.)

And then my friend said to me, impishly, "At least the poop was dry."

Oh my God. That martini better be dry too.

I know it won't be long before I am serenaded with, "Beans beans, the magical fruit..." at the dinner table.