Busted

Heh. I knew that Schweatty ball thing would come back to bite me in the ass.

Because the Universe can't let a lapse in judgment pass without some kind of comeuppance. No...sir. Madame Cosmos must punish those who transgress in the most humiliating way possible. She's a real bitch that way.

The other night, we ventured out to a real restaurant with the boys. The utensils were made of metal and nary a spork was in sight. We thumbed leisurely through non-laminated menus, in which, there were no items named after the proprietor's prodigious brethren. There were cloth napkins instead of rolls of 100% post consumer paper product. And our dinner was served on actual plates, rather than waxed paper in a brightly colored plastic basket.

The boys, typically, amused themselves doing things that would be frowned upon at home, but to which Husband and I turned a blind eye, knowing full well that keeping them engaged would forestall a spill, a meltdown or both until our food arrived. They paid little attention to the discussion between us.

Until the talk turned to balls.

I don't know why little boys (and grown men for that matter) possess an almost canine ability to sense when bodily emissions or genatalia of any kind have become the topic of conversation, but their ears pricked up as Husband and I heedlessly chuckled over an incident that occurred earlier, wherein, one of the Assistant Coaches, in a stunning display of tactical miscalculation, took a line drive directly to the groin. Luckily, the man had the sense to realize that standing on an elevated mound of earth 30 feet in front of an 8 year old wielding an aluminum stick necessitated a certain amount of caution. He escaped serious injury because he was wearing a cup, but Husband allowed as how he was likely a little....contused...nonetheless.

"He's going to be a little tender." observed Husband sardonically.

At this point, Diminutive One piped up in a voice that, like his father's, has the uncanny knack for carrying over all but the most raucous din and said,

"Hey Mom...remember that video we saw where that lady said...(affecting falsetto)"MMMMMM Pete! Your balls are so tender!!"

SIGH.

Now, while I expect that most folks in the restaurant had been discommoded a time or two by an injudicious remark from their offspring, and while I expect that most of them simply smiled to themselves and said a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn't their kid this time....I know that some Southerners prize politesse above all else, even if it is contrived and disingenuous. They do not look upon such flagrant irreverence with humor.

I cringed, and glanced around. I did see some half-hidden smiles, but I also saw some scathing disapproval, mostly from the kind of folks one expects to have a long and illustrious Southern heritage; one in which a klansman and a preacher (not necessarily two different people) figure prominently.

But comparatively speaking, the repercussions were minor…this time.

“Diminutive One, we do not talk about those kinds of things in public.”

“But…you and Dad were!” he protested.

“Yes, but Dad and I were being discreet.”

“Huh?”

“Discreet. It means that nobody knew what we were talking about.”

“I knew.”

“I don’t want you to tell anybody else you saw that video. It was inappropriate.”

“Then why did you let me watch it?”

I glanced at husband, who smirked at me in that way that means either “Get yourself outta that one smartypants” or "We should do naughty things to one another" In this case, it was clearly the former.

“I used poor judgment”

When all else fails, try a little honesty, I always say.

“Oh. You mean like that time that I ate all that candy out of my Easter Basket without asking and then I threw up in the car on the way home from Nanny and Papa’s house and cried because my tummy hurt?”

“Did you wish you hadn’t done it?”

“Big time.”

“Were you kinda mad at yourself?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then yeah, like that”

Just. Like. That.