FROM THE MOUTHS OF MINI-ME’S

by Steve Clem on November 8, 2010

*WARNING: This blog entry contains material that may be inappropriate for those who have not been around young boys who like to discuss topics like testicles and poop. Please do not read it if you are scared by the mere mention of those topics.*

So I’m sitting in the living room, minding my own business, because that’s how I roll.

My mini-me’s and I had just finished discussing the fact that their neighbor friend at their mom’s house was going to be having surgery because one of his testicles (not the term they used) was larger than the other.

They giggled as they told me of course. And I tried to explain to them that while the topic can be funny, not when someone has to have surgery for it. My oldest mini-me then asked me “Dad, if one of mine is a little bigger than the other does that mean I have a problem?” I told him I didn’t think so (he’s my hypochondriac).

So a few minutes later from the bedroom I hear my youngest mini-me yell out “Daddy!”

“What, Gman?”

“My balls are dangling and they look like a butt crack.”

At which point I realized that I was doomed.

Which made me think about a few other times over the years that these two have made me wonder how much karma could come back to bite me in the butt for the things I said as a child to my mom and dad.

There was the time a couple years ago, when they were complaining about whatever horrid dinner I cooked that night. I pulled a “I sound like my father” moment, and exclaimed “You know there are kids starving in China who would love to have that food!”

My oldest mini-me shrugged his shoulders at me and said “Well good, then lets just send it to them.”

Doomed.

Or the time we sat down to fill out a fun survey together, and when the question came up “What’s something your Dad is not good at doing?”

And my oldest mini-me answered with a crap-eating grin, “Picking out girlfriends.”

Freaking. Doomed.

Then there was the time shortly after I moved into my own townhouse following my divorce. My mini-me’s had a propensity to use the toilet and not take care of flushing on a regular basis. As I walked into the half-bathroom off my kitchen, I noticed a package left for me in the toilet.

I walked back out to the living room and interrupted a very intense Lego construction project. “Hey guys, which one of you left that in the toilet without flushing?”

Both mini-me’s in unison announced “Not me!”

The only response I could think of was, “Oh, so it must have been a ghost.”

About an hour later, as we were driving to the store, my youngest said, in his still little boy voice, “Daddy, I fink I know who pooped in your toiwet.”

“Who?”

“It was a goat.”

Short pause.

“Or a pirate.”

Yep.

I’m definitely doomed.

* * * *

Steve Clem originally published this piece on the blog A Prisoner in the Tundra.

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