As the only female in a house full of boys, I had to accept long ago that our house would be overflowing with potty talk (literally* and figuratively). When Jimmy was a baby, I teased a friend for having her sons refer to farts as “bongos.” By the time Jimmy was old enough to find humor in bodily functions, I quickly understood her logic. We too adapted the “bongo” technique.
It was much more discrete to walk through a store with yells of…
“I just bongo’d.”
“I bongo’d free (3) times!”
“My bongo sounds like thunder.”
“I farted. I farted. I faaaaaaaart-ed.”
“I cut the three cheese pizza.”
“Did you hear that thunder from down under??”
Speaking of shopping, I once found a shirt with a picture of monkeys on the front and BONGO BROTHERS in a large font. Best. Find. Ever. And no one knew why I chuckled every time I looked at it. But I digress…
By the time Greg came along, I was eternally grateful to my friend for the “bongo” tip. It saved many an embarrassing moment. Especially when in the midst of a crowd and hearing the bellow of, “Mommy! Did you bongo???” I could just laugh and pretend to play drums. (And NO, I did NOT bongo. Girls do not bongo.)
Boys may think farts are funny, but poop? Now that is a source of pride. They have no qualms spouting off details about their grunt sculpture. I always know who finished his serving of corn the night before, who dropped something the size of a forearm and who needs to refer to it as #3.
Once while driving home, one who shall remain nameless (although I’m not sure why since, you know, poo pride) had to poop. Urgently. He finally yelled, “Hurry! I’m playing whack-a-mole back here!” I will never look at that carnival game the same again.
My least favorite is the reference of “dropping the kids off at the pool.” That brings back horrid memories of once finding floating evidence that someone had dropped their kid off at the pool while I was IN THE POOL (No, not my kid. I mean not my kid’s kid. I mean not my kid’s poop. Whatever.).
I said I’d never write about poop and now I have. More than once. But it’s all Cottonelle’s fault this time! They asked me to review do a review as part of their #letstalkbums campaign (if you landed here because you Googled “let stalk bums,” you may leave now. Right now.)
I am sure I was selected because, well, four sons automatically makes one a potty expert. I am, after all, the one who improved the common “If you sprinkle when you tinkle” jingle by adding a second verse.
“If you splat when you shat, after you flush please use the brush.”
I bought my Cottonelle® Flushable Cleansing Cloths with Clean Care toilet paper at CVS. I must admit I was a bit skeptical at first about the Cleansing Cloths – because “adult baby wipes” came to mind – but, honestly, it makes sense. You wouldn’t wash your hands with a dry paper towel, right?
I’ve always been a bit of a TP snob. I hate the public restroom rolls. Not enough to bring my own roll in my purse, but Cottonelle Clean Care makes that thought more tempting. It is even made with 100% virgin fibers. Because you don’t want any recycled fibers on your bum! (If you Googled anything to do with public restrooms or tempting virgins to get here, you can also leave. And shame on you.)
*Read about when our house literally overflowed in the post “Can’t Make This Sh*t Up!”
If at first you don’t succeed, flush, flush again.