Last night I was lamenting photo-less weekend. “Now I won’t have a Hello Monday post for tomorrow.”
My son, the one who used the word auspicious in conversation just moments earlier said, “Have a Mom Monday instead.”
Now that’s not a bad idea, but it would require my children to do something funny, because let’s face it, the only mom moments you want to hear about involve laughter, or at least a snicker. My kids just aren’t that humorous any more. They grew up and now I live with little alien beings, who of course know it all and use three syllable words in conversations.
“Why do you need us to do something funny?” My son asked. “We don’t do funny things.”
“Yes you do.” Pipes in my husband.
“How about the butt roots?”
The butt roots were a family favorite. Seriously. They were a stroke of creative parenting genius on my part, right up there with Santa Claus seeing if you’re being naughty or nice.
“Oh, ya.” Said FringeBoy. “I actually thought about those other day.”
The story of butt roots goes something like this…
It was during our lazy, washed out Saturday that I may have altered the course of my son’s future. I wish I could say it was through a word of my own wisdom, a portion of Scripture, or a great piece of advice I’d clung to since childhood.
Unfortunately, I cannot.
It was rather through a rash outpouring of words so ridiculous I thought surely not even an eight year-old could mistake my fable for truth. Concerned as any responsible mother would be, I chided my cross-eyed children for being “couch potatoes”.
“What’s a couch potato?
Such a simple question…
The mere fact that a scrambled half-witted response flew from lips without reserve frightens me. The waters are so murky in the depths of my mind.
“A couch potato is someone who sits around watching TV for so long that roots start to grow from his bottom and they wrap themselves around the couch. The only cure is surgery.”
A more stupid explanation I doubt exists; however, my son epitomizes gullible.
His concern over “butt roots” (as we now refer to them) increased throughout the day. He became fearful reading would have the same planting effect.
Like a good mother I assured him butt roots were linked to excessive visual stimulation (for example, watching too much television).
I’m still amazed by how little TV he’s watched since. If only my twisted brain could have conjured such nonsense years earlier.
My only fear is a call from his teacher asking me to explain butt roots. Surely I’ll have to come up with a more scientific answer than I gave my son.
Years later, the fear of butt roots is still firmly planted in my son’s mind. He thought about them the other day when he and few of his friends were all sitting on the couch playing Minecraft.
Mom’s have a tough job. Sometimes we have to be creative, even if that means putting the fear of butt roots into our kids.
Now tell me, what is your most creative parenting trick?