One of my absolute favorite things to do with my kids is to read to them. . .ok, I'm lying. This is a big, fat, lie, seems how they can never sit still for a whole story and insist on creating what should normally be a calming bedtime ritual, a circus. Since I happen to have a borderline obsession with children’s books, though, I get absolutely giddy when they want to share in my love of literature (kinda). That’s why the bedtime story is one of my most treasured times of the day (eye roll) — that is, until one of my little monsters decide to moon me right in the freakin’ middle of Goodnight Moon.
And so it was the other night, when we all settled in to my sons room to get all cozy with a good read. My oldest was snuggling Rocky, the dog we seem to be fostering for the time being, as he "adopted me" on one of my nightly runs last week. The little Stinker was hanging from his bunk bed like a monkey, and my hubby was listening from the next room, playing some form of Zombie-killing game. Now this may seem odd to some families, but to ours, this is pretty much the general state of the union around here. Yes, everyone was totally and completely mesmerized by the brush and the bowl of porridge and the red balloon.
But just as I was about to wrap up my tale-telling for the evening, my youngest son, the comedian, took it upon himself to squash the warm and fuzzy mood in the room in one fell swoop. He stood on his bed, turned around, and promptly dropped trou right then and there. I glanced up from the book just in time to see a bare naked little tushy wiggling from side to side in front of me.
Really, dude? Now how was I supposed to act all parent-y while my son was so proudly displaying his first official “full moon“? So I did the only thing I could do. I made a beeline out of the room so he wouldn’t hear all my giggling. And then I gave him silent props for giving me a very witty end to our story time. Goodnight Moon, indeed, child. Touche'.