What Little Boys are Made Of

So, we're in the middle of our weekday scramble to get out the door in the morning. Eric is off getting the Papaya dressed and I'm busying getting the kids daycare bag together. Bottles. Asthma puffer. Hats. Sunblock. All Check.

Kieran has put on his sandals and gathered up Spunky and is standing near the door impatiently wanting to go outside. Suddenly he runs over to the door, bangs it open and leans outside.

Me: "What are you doing?"

Him: "Spitting."

Me: "What?! Spitting?! We don't open the door and spit outside. Ever!!! That's yucky!"

Long pause. Kieran stares at me blankly, clearly trying to process something.

Him: "Sooooo I spit inside on the floor?"

Ah Little Boys. Apparently, if they aren't peeing on the toilet seats and laughing at fart noises they are horking out the door. Snips and snails and puppy-dog tails indeed.

I look over at Kaya, who has emerged from her bedroom with Eric, in her jaunty denim jacket with the embroidered flowers and a little tuft of hair tied neatly in a pink band. She is all clean and shiny for the day ahead. She's too young obviously to be anything other than pure sugar and spice, but I hope it holds.

Because, for the record, I HATE fart jokes.