What’s in my pants?

Before I even finished my coffee yesterday, I heard, “Ow, ow, ow! There’s a sticker on my penis! Ow! Ow! Help, Mommy! Help! Help! HELP!!!!!”

Um, what? Um, hello? “Uh, what do you mean?! A sticker? Uh, are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Help! Help! A sticker! A sticker! Oh, wait, I’ll get it!”

He likes to shift gears unexpectedly.

Sure enough, there was a tiny little label with QC 30 printed on it, stuck to his nether regions. A vestige of the newness of his Buzz Lightyear undies, and undisputed evidence of an overzealous product stamper.

Thankfully, The Elder is entirely too young to be at all disturbed by a quality control inspector having summarily labeled his parts. I’m not so sure most grown men could handle that issue with such grace and aplomb, even if the product did get approved.

And it also occurs to me that it must take some talent to be 4 years old and instantly know what’s stuck to one’s genitalia.

In the future, I’m looking forward to incidents including “Ow! Ow! A struthiomimus!” “Ow! Ow! A yogurt tube!” and “Ow! Ow! A Faberge egg!” This could be fun.

Strangely enough, I have already found a Matchbox car inside The Younger’s diaper this year. That mystery has remained unsolved. And, sadly, he has not yet developed The Elder’s sensitivity at the “What’s in my pants?” game.

Not yet, that is. Give him a year or two. –Jillian O’Connor