Poo-poo, the sequel

I know, I know. It's been weeks! I am getting blog lazy (blazy?). That's what happens when I have an actual work project to spend my time on.

I know I wrote about poop talk months ago, but it's returned to our house with a vengeance lately. This time it's not so much Henry as it is Amelia. Now that she's officially 2, there is nothing funnier to her than the word "poo-poo."

This is what it's like to read a book with her now:

Me: In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red...

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: Balloon. And a picture of... [pause to turn the page]

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: No, the cow jumping over the...

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: No more poo poo! If you keep saying 'poo poo,' I'm closing the book.

Amelia: OK, no more poo poo.

Me: Thank you. And there were three little bears, sitting on...

Amelia: Pee pee

And of course it's like hearing something funny at a funeral, right? It's not really that funny, but because you know you're not supposed to laugh, it is hilarious. So I set my face in a stern gaze, and then I snort, and then I guffaw, and soon I am crying tears of unadulterated mirth and Amelia is grinning in victory.

Poo-poo

Lately Henry is discovering potty talk, particularly the multiple uses for the word "poop" and variations thereof (poo-poo, poopy diaper, poo-poo boy, and poo-poo girl, to name a few). For special occasions, he wheels out his absolute dirtiest word: BOTTOM. He relishes the word. He says it slowly, in a voice deeper than the way he usually speaks, drawing out the first vowel (Baaaaah-tum).

Which brings me to the nuances of policing potty talk. Technically, bottom is not a bad word. In fact, considering the range of possible terms describing that physical region, bottom is maybe worse than "buttocks" and more polite than "rear end," but it is clearly on the cleaner end of the spectrum than "ass."

So I have to consider several factors, such as location, intent, and audience. When he tells Amelia that the squirrel in the yard is a poo-poo head, and she laughs, I let it slide. When he tells me dinner tastes like bottom, I object.

Henry has noted that there are exceptions, and he has become sort of a potty talk negotiator. The other night at dinner, when I invoked the no-poop-talk-while-eating rule after he referred to Amelia as a poopy diaper, he immediately apologized. Thirty seconds later he sighed and flipped his wrist and said, "Oh, poo."

"Henry," I warned.

"I'm not saying 'poo' like what comes out of your bottom," he argued. "I'm just saying, 'Oh, poo.'" He flipped his wrist again in demonstration.

And then I laughed, thereby ensuring that potty talk at the table will continue indefinitely.