Jokes

“Mom, you smell like bullfrog.”

Mia is going through a joke telling phase, and to be honest, not a single one so far has been particularly funny.

She came home from her dad’s house this past weekend with another one:

Why did the soldier flush the toilet?

Because it was his duty.

“Get it, Mom? Duty? Doo-dy? Ha, ha, ha.”

Apparently someone named 'Wreck It' Ralph told her.
Thanks, Ralph. Thanks a bunch.

It kind of makes me miss last month’s favorite:

Knock, knock?
Who’s there?
Boo.
Boo who?
Don’t cry. It’s just a joke.

It took Russ about ten tries to teach her that one. Considering that she learned to tie her shoes in a single try after a preschool classmate showed her how to at recess, it shocks me at how painfully slow this joke-learning process has been for her.

“Pew, Mom, you smell like bullfrog.”

“Look, I know you’re trying out this whole joke thing, but I don't find that funny.“
“I’m not joking, Mom. You really do.”

Bad jokes are one thing, but disrespect is never tolerated. Never. What was causing this rude behavior? We’d had such a nice afternoon playing over at Anna and Emma’s house. The girls had splashed with the hose, and the mommies had visited in the shade. We’d had so much fun. Now I was going to have to put on my Mean Mommy attitude and figure out a pep talk and an appropriate consequence. This was really not cool.

I exhaled. Here we go.

“I beg your pardon,” I began, “but in this house—“

“You should probably take a shower and get it off, you know, so it doesn’t get on your sheets.”
“So what doesn’t get on my sheets?”
“The bullfrog. Remember? You sprayed it all over both of us when we were over at Anna’s house.”

Oh, that Bullfrog. The sunscreen-bugspray supercombo.

The night was not ruined after all. I guess the joke was on me.