Why Don’t YOU Tell ME What a BJ Is, Son.


Having a kid is horrifying.

You have this little person, and you are totally responsible as to whether or not they turn out an angel or the devil incarnate. I’m hoping for something in between.

Sure, there may be a few other things that impact their development – video games, unattended TV time, sibling rivalry or the converse lack-of-sibling loneliness. That evil second grade little snot that is *this* close to a full on freak out.

But mostly, it’s us.

So when Q somehow combined his lunch with a toilet expedition, we probably should have seen that coming. At least it was merely a song, while Daddy was in the shower.

“Whats…for…lunch?

P. B. J.

PBJ.

P. B. J.

PBJ.

I am peeing, pee pee.

P. B. J. P.P.

PBJ.

PP. BJ.”

He broke of here to talk with his father. “That would be kind of gross, huh Dad. A PP and J sandwich. Glad I left my lunch in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, that’d be gross, son. And never bring food in here.” This, from behind the shower curtain.

“I guess it would really be PPBJ. But that would be gross, too. You know, pee pee and a bj in a sandwich. You know what a bj is, right?”

. . .

Dad countered. “Ahhh, do you know what a bj is, bud?”

“Ues. But you have to know what a bj is, you know – a bj.” Like stressing the word would make it more clear and less horrifying.

So what has unattended time on YouTube borne?

Dad stuck his head out around the curtain to look directly at his newly six-year-old son. “I need you to tell me what it is. I don’t remember.”

The little sighed. A sound of pure exasperation. “You know. a bj. The famous guys that play music.”

BJ…DJ.

Dad stuck his head back under the spray. “That’s a DJ, son. You can’t call it a BJ. Say DeeeJ.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not the same thing. And you’re right. A DJ sandwich would be disgusting. You’d be a cannibal.”

Parents should know enough to quit while they’re ahead.

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