Scatology 101

I present a scene from my own childhood. My grandmother, a truly jolly soul, is watching my sister and me perform for her. She is delighted by our performance art; there is no pretending in this room. We have written this masterpiece just for her because our mother will not be amused by it. We are in our unfinished basement, dancing and singing on an old king-sized matress that my parents let us have to play on. She is sitting on a lawn chair. The song, and I use the term "song" loosely, goes something like this (well, not something, exactly) (and, please know that I shudder to admit this):

Verse one:
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot toot toot toot toot toot toot toot toooooot.

You can probably imagine how this performance might continue. But, believe me when I say that we settled for no less than eight verses, covering bodily functions that I don't think other children perform for their grandmothers, at the grandmother's behest no less. Indeed, like a true groundling, she would scream out suggestions for the next action, or join in, adding to the fun. If we were truly lucky, we could get her to take out her fake teeth and squirm in giggles as she gummed a smile at us.

Good times.

And, these good times are back again for some of us in my household. Greta and Graham have discovered potty humor. My husband is not amused. Nor should he be, I know. His whole family are truly further evolved people, like the stock my mother comes from. My mother comes from a medical family, where it's all science. As a small child, I was the only one on the block who had been taught BM instead of poopy. It doesn't carry the same ring when calling it out across the playground. Clearly my father's family is closer to the days when humans flung excrement at each other like monkeys. Noone flings it anymore in this gene pool (that I know of), but they're not above that if it would bring a laugh. They love the bathroom humor.

I had thought that Greta avoided the "potty" gene, when she came home from school and told me that poopy was not a nice word. I asked her how she knew this. She told me that the teacher told the boys in her preschool class. I asked what the boys said in response. I am told that they said poopy again. Greta found no humor in this, and I successfully bit my lip and thought, crisis avoided.

Then, Graham turned two. And, Greta loves to make her brother laugh. And, help us all, Graham has dipped into the fatal potty genepool. He cries from laughter if Greta whispers "potty" in his ear. Real tears. When reading a book, Graham points out the butt of characters. The two of them are frequently looking for moments that they can discuss bodily functions. So far, it's pretty innocent. They only know of three functions.

And thus, crisis NOT avoided. This is the problem. Somewhere, deep inside of me, I still think that this is funny. Help. The larger part of me responds to their behavior by telling them to stop, that it's not how we joke. And, I try to come up with better, more appropriate, funny words. But, they always go back to the potty. And every once in a while they catch the little piece of my grandmother that is in me smiling.