Google Friend Connect is leaving those of us not with Blogger March 1st…so I’ve heard. If you want to continue reading about my shenanigans, subscribe via the spot on the right hand side or “Like” me on Facebook. Please and thank you…that wasn’t too needy, was it?

I have three sons.

One of these sons has a penchant for his dingdong.
By this I mean that he always has his hands down his pants.
He’s been told repeatedly to remove said hands from said pants, because, and I quote, “Your penis isn’t sterile. Then when you put your hands in the bowl of popcorn or the bag of chips, we all get your penis germs.”
His reply, “I’m not touching my penis. I just like resting my hands between my legs.”

Sure he does…

Anyway, this is yet another battle I’ve given up.
I figure if the kid isn’t smoking pot or flipping off the teachers, then there are far worse things he could be doing in the privacy of our home than fondling himself.

At supper time, however, as we were getting ready to eat pizza and bread sticks, while I was in the kitchen getting plates and glasses, I could hear this conversation in the dining room:

“Ewww…Don’t touch the pizza, you’ve got penis-hands.”
“I don’t have penis-hands! I washed my hands before coming up for supper.”

The scary part is that I understood every single word of this interaction without even having to ask the kids to elaborate upon the meaning of penis-hands.

Then I wondered how many other mothers with adolescent boys in North America would have understood the meaning without having to ask for clarification…

Then, to make myself feel better, I called out, “Get your hands out of your pants at the dinner table!”

There. That outta do it.