So Ethan's quite a hit in public restrooms and the check out line at grocery stores. Apparently there's something irresistibly hilarious about a pre-schooler who possesses certain knowledge and no filter for what may or may not be socially appropriate commentary.
Case in point one: Two days ago, after a fabulous play date and delicious lunch with friends, Ethan and I stopped at Target to pick up some overnight diapers (because peeing on the potty is kind of a once-a-week kind of thrill for us here rather than an every day occurrence) and some Breathe-Right strips (large, clear--because FORTHELOVEOFGOD, make Husband's snoring stop!!!)
It was one of those Targets with a Starbucks conveniently located at the entrance--clearly, the best kind of Target. But before I could order and adequately enjoy my tall, decaf, skim peppermint mocha, I needed to make use of the facilities.
Fortunately Ethan is still amenable to sitting in the stroller every once in awhile (as long as it comes along with a "guess what?! Mommy will get you a Hot Wheels car if you sit in this stroller for just a few minutes!! I'm not proud.) I'm normally thrilled to have him running around, darting from one aisle to the next, just to test my "no one steal my baby!!" reflexes. Keeps me on my toes. But that day, I just wanted to run into Target, get the stuff we needed (including the peppermint mocha, people), and then get out. So the stroller makes mama happy, even if it's a little challenging to push said stroller while carrying a package of Huggies Overnights and a Starbucks cups.
Why no cart, Sarah? Just put Ethan in a cart, Sarah! Then you can throw your purchases right into the back of the cart, Sarah. Dumby!
I'll tell you why no cart, Sarah. Because I'm on a self-imposed (okay, Husband-imposed) Target detox. If I get a cart, I FILL a cart. I don't mean to. It just happens. Don't act like you don't do it, too, interwebs. I see you.
So I only purchase what I can either carry in my hands or in one of their little hand-baskets (you can fit a surprising amount into those little things).
ANYWAY! I had to pee, remember? And Ethan was in the stroller. In the handicapped stall with me. While I peed. In a crowded restroom. It is at this point in our day that Ethan decided to review his latest anatomy fixation, and yells out, "Do you have a vagina??!! Is that your vagina??!"
Ohdeargod. Yes. Yes, Ethan. That's mommy's vagina.
I'm a little relieved that he has learned the right word--for a long time when he was learning "penis" and "vagina", he melded the two in his mind and created the word "ginis" (pronounced j-eye-nis). My sister in law once explained to me that he actually should be calling it a "vulva", since that is the more accurate term for what he right now thinks is a vagina, but you know what? I'm cool with "vagina" for now. Hope that's okay, Emi!
So there I sat (well, squatted) and listened to the laughter start to ripple through the womens' restroom. Nothing like being the source of bathroom comedy at the hands of your almost 3-year old. I'll tell you, coming out of the stall was a treat. Ethan was, of course, giggling because he heard the women laughing. And then ALL the women had to carry on about how hysterical it was---"Did he just say, "is that your vagina?!" Oh, how cute!"
Anyone want to take a guess what Ethan talked about the ENTIRE time we strolled around Target? My vagina.
So great. We survived the "Target Vagina Incident" with everyone thinking that Ethan was the cutest thing ever. What's cuter than a little boy yelling "vagina!!"?? Clearly that skyrockets above baby puppies and cuddly newborns.
I had just about gotten past that in my head when today I found myself in the grocery store, pushing Ethan in the cart (I do not have the same problem at the grocery store that I do in Target. I can resist the "one of everything" mindset when pickled pigs feet and ground veal is involved).
To get Ethan to tolerate the shopping cart at the grocery store, I have recently had to start pretending that the cart is a pirate ship, he is the captain and we have to "capture" the groceries. It's loads of fun---lots of "argggg'ing" and capturing Annie's Pizza Bites. Good times.
What I got today, however, was a pirate who was preoccupied by the either real or imagined contents of one particular nostril. No matter how hard I tried, I could not convince him to remove his finger from his nose. Through almost every aisle. To the point where I thought perhaps he'd shoved something up there that would require medical attention. Most people chuckled when they saw me imploring him to take his finger out of his nose; a few went right on ahead and judged me as an unfit mother for not being able to control an almost three year old, but I'm guessing they either never had kids or were tyrant-parents to kids who don't really like them all that much.
Cut to the check out aisle. The cashier and bagging clerk were apparently not versed in the "if you want a toddler to stop a certain behavior, ignore it the best you can," method of parenting. As soon as I wheeled Ethan past the credit card paying contraption, the bagger asked, "Hey there, little guy---whatchoo got in your nose?! Whatchoo got there?!"
And it was on.
Ethan, gleefully realizing that someone is actually interested in his nasal excavation, pulls his finger out of his nose and says, "A BOOGER!" And the laughter began. And went on and on. As did the repetition of the word "booger". And not only Ethan said the word "booger" eleventy billion times. Laughy McGigglepants the bagger and Chuckles McGhee the cashier chimed in, too. "You got a booger?!" "Hey! Good job getting that booger!"
I have honestly never seen Ethan laugh so hard. So that part of it? Priceless. The eyes of every single person in that part of the store on us while my kid and two oversized toddlers laughed about boogers? Not so much.
And just for the record? No booger on his finger. But I washed his entire hand with a wipe, in full view of the front of the store, before leaving anyway.
I think we'll just stay home tomorrow.