Scrolling Saturdays: Everyone Says He Is Just Like His Daddy (Read: Not Like Me)

This was originally published in February of 2007. For more Scrolling Saturdays, go here.

There are times I post stories that need no introduction. They stand alone in their reflections of children's innocence and humor.

And then there are the stories like today's. The kind that require a preface and double disclaimer.

Disclaimer 1: This is the reason I do not use our last name or my children's first names. Because I am horrified to claim this child as my own. Although I am sure each parent reading has an equally disgusting story.

Disclaimer 2: There is a distinct possibility that this child may not be mine at all. He was the only one not born at home, and we all know how sneaky those hospital staff are. Now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure he was switched at birth.



When we returned from an exhausting day of sledding last night, I was sure the kids would throw themselves into bed and peacefully sleep away the night. Didn't happen. Overly tired and limbs aching from being dragged up the hill by their pregnant mommy, they were all wailing. I yanked off clothes, pulled on jammies and did some really quick teeth brushing. At some point I climbed into bed with baby Clam and that's when I became convinced I am rearing someone else's child.

The boys have bunk beds, so I was lying directly under Asker. After a few minutes, he must have forgotten that I was below him. All was quiet, when I heard him whispering.

"Dear Jesus, please help me not to die. I don't want to die. Please help me not to die from the poop germs."

Of course, being the ever-loving mom that I am, my first reaction was to start laughing. But I did so silently, being even more concerned with eavesdropping. I sneaked out of Clam's bed and peeked over the rail for a closer look and listen.

"Jesus, protect me from those poop germs. Help me not to die."

At this point, sympathetic sweet mom kicked in and I made my presence known (plus I knew a really good blog post was happening and I needed details).

"What's wrong, buddy? Why are you praying?"

"I can't tell you, mom. I'm going to get in trouble."

"It's OK, Asker, you can tell me. I want to make sure you're OK. I'm not going to discipline you."

"I'm not OK. I'm going to die!"

At this, my heart started breaking because he obviously believed his demise was imminent. So I climbed the ladder and snuggled up to him.

"Tell me what happened, honey"

"Well, I.....I....I was going to eat my boogie. I mean, I did eat my boogie, and my finger smelled like poop and now I'm going to die from the collie."

OK, can we just stop right there. There are so many disgusting, embarrassing, I-cannot-believe-my-child-just-said-that moments in that confession that I am still reeling. But, in that enigma of life, it is in weakness and vulnerability that we are most prone to tenderness. So, even though I was visibly trying not to laugh, I was overwhelmed with love for this stinky little boy.

"You mean, e-coli?"

"Yes, the poop germs."

"No, honey you're not going to die. Um, why does your finger smell like poop?"

You would have asked, too.

"Well, I was trying to wipe when I had all my snow clothes on, and I couldn't get it all."

"So, you didn't wash your hands and had a little poop smell on your finger from during the day? Well, don't worry, the e-coli are probably all dead from being out in the cold."

Completely pulled out of my butt, that explanation was.

"No, mom, I didn't get it all before, and my hiney was itching, so I just tried to wipe it on my blanket."

"ON YOUR BLANKET? Why didn't you go to the bathroom?"

"I was too tired... I'm going to die!!"

I spent the next few minutes comforting him with various explanations as to why he wasn't going to die. Finally, we prayed together that God would destroy the poop germs (Asker adding "with lasers") and he was able to go to sleep.

I looked at him with the absolute, pure love that comes when they are sleeping and realized what a special thing it is to have a child that is willing to share his most embarrassing moments with his mom. I don't think I would have told my mom had I done the same thing, even at that young age. I'm sure in a few years, his social skills will have developed and he will not even consider cluing me in. I looked at him for another moment, said a quick prayer of thanks, and rushed downstairs to tell Dave so we could laugh hysterically.