We went to a concert in a local park last Sunday to meet up with some of W’s family.
The kids goofed around on the playground equipment.
“My butt hurts,” one of the kids blurted out.
“Then you should go to the butt hospital,” another retorted.
A woman walking by laughed out loud.
This is how I knew she doesn’t have children living at home. Maybe she never had kids. Or, maybe they’re grown and living on their own now with their own insult-slinging offspring.
With three boys ages 12, 13 and 14, we hear on average 123 butt retorts per week.
We are desensitized to the not-so nuanced humor of the butt joke, even the good ones.
In our house, something, anything — an iPod, a book, a laptop, a sweatshirt — is always lodged in someone’s butt, up someone’s butt or up someone’s butt and around the corner.
It never fails.
Child #1: I can’t find my shoes!
Child #2: Maybe they’re up your butt.
Child #1: Maybe they’re up your butt!
True fact: A child just walked behind me exclaiming “Ow, my butt.”
I think back to the lady in the park. How she wasn’t jaded when it came to a decent one-liner with “butt” in the punch line.
Now that I think about it, I bet she never had kids.