Boys Being Boys
So JackMan went camping by the Chattahoochee last Saturday with some others of the drumline, the older guys being kind enough to take a few of the younger for a night of faux-survival male bonding. Of course this is something I'd have never allowed the girls to do--go spend the night in the woods, unchaperoned. A terrible double standard, especially since the girls wouldn't have been searching every cabinet and drawer in the house for aerosol cans and matches to pack.
And I'd never have allowed Jack to go, either, if it weren't for Biggy constantly checking me, reminding me that if I had my way, Jack would be a Golden Girl. I wouldn't put any stock in this at all but for the fact that when Jack was three--and there was no male living in the house and I had no idea about such things--my friend Josie (who had brothers) happened to be walking down the hall and witnessed Jack "dabbing" with TP as he stood at the potty. She ran back to the kitchen horrified, asking where he'd learned that.
I told her I'd taught him--that I thought everyone did it--that no one wanted a pee spot on their pants--at which time she informed me that boys "shake it" instead. I'd made it a point never to watch a man pee (as I'm not a big fan of bodily fluids in general), so how was I to know? The point of this being that I leave these guy-things up to my husband, the Potato Gun King.
When I picked Jack up at the ringleader's house late Sunday morning, he looked like he'd been dragged behind a horse.
JackMan: We didn't go to sleep until 6 a.m. and got up at 10.
TR: What were you doing till 6 o'clock in the morning?!
JackMan: Well, we made a trip to WalMart and bought some towels and wire and diesel fuel--
TR: Whoa! Don't say anything else. I'm sorry I asked.