Garrett is home sick today, so we're busy hanging out. We've had a cheerios war, played cars, watched cartoons, had a bath and hugged an awful lot. For those of you who don't know, Garrett has cerebral palsy and is not able to walk independently. When people find out about his disability, I usually get the "Ohh. I'm so sorry." This is generally spoken in a whisper, as if saying out loud that Garrett has a disability might make it worse. For whatever reason, this just cracks me up. I keep thinking if I whisper about weight gain, it might not make it true, or at least slow the process down. That's the funny thing about truth, at least absolute truth. 2 plus 2 is always 4. Once you've had 2 babies, nursed them both, followed by a complete hysterectomy, generally a lap-sack/fanny addendum makes it's truth known. I live with this absolute truth everyday. Sometimes my denial rises up above reality, Ben and Jerry come over. Somehow one bite turns into two, ten and so on. I seem to believe I can defy the laws of physics and that expansion doesn't occur while consuming Half Baked. My awakening to the reality of caloric intake minus physical activity is another story. One that often concludes with some curse words and wriggling my way back into either my fat pants or something with an elastic waste. Have I mentioned my love affair with elastic? Elastic makes everything right in the world. So does Ben and Jerry's.
Anyway, I was talking about Garrett. He was in the tub having a grand time and I was working away on the computer. From the bathroom I hear "Hey homeslice, I want to teach you a new song. Come up here." Yes, homeslice is a term of endearment in my house. I trudge upstairs to find my naked six year old, bright eyed and ready to burst at the seam. I'm thinking (in the 15 seconds it takes me to get upstairs) that perhaps he's going to teach me some cool song he learned in music class, like "America the Beautiful" or "Father Abraham" - yeah, notsomuch. Instead, I hear a song he and his friend Michael "made up." It goes something like this: Yo-Yo, do you wanna bam-chicka-wow-wow? Think of the bass line in the Seinfeld theme song mixed with a little adult-entertainment music (and NO, I don't watch that garbage - don't ask me how I know that type of music). Bam-chicka-wow-wow. Bam-chicka-wow-wow. I doubt that our little angel Michael came up with that on his own. I begin to laugh, which of course tickles Garrett to no end. Now, he wants to call everyone in our family so they can hear his song. I can hear my father muttering that he's heard that song before somewhere. So then, King Nakedness then moves into the bedroom, shivering and making the bam-chicka sound like a wayward soprano with a vibrato that has it's own zip code. I'm hysterical at this point. We agree that we should come up with some more words to the song. Another absolute truth...it's hard to formulate words when you're on the verge of peeing your pants because your naked six year old thinks he's Eminem. Garrett is either destined to be a Grammy winner or will eeek out a living singing jingles for infomercials.
He gets off the bed and begins to scootch his way down the stairs, stilling singing a mixture of songs and laughing. As I write this, he's in the other room teaching his red convertible corvette and Optimus Prime to duet to something along the lines of "Yo Mama..."
I just asked him what the funniest thing he knows is. In true boy fashion, take a wild guess what his response is? Farting is the funniest thing he knows and does. He tells me that he especially likes pizza farts. Ooop, now he's going to give me an example. Gasping for air. Must keep breathing. Another absolute truth: boys love anything to do with farts. This fascination doesn't end until the day they cross over into the next life. I have a number of men in my life, all of them obsessed with out-doing each other in this particular area. I have one question (this could be deemed irreverent, but I swear it's not meant that way...): God made man in his likeness, so do you think God gets a little gassy if he eats too much Mexican food?
To the truth of little boys singing, farting, and the lost art of Bam-chicka-wow-wow talents...
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