Junior's Diary - Entry 1

Disclaimer: My kid can't read or write.  Well, he can read a little, if you count words like Samsung, Dirt Devil, Jeep, Verizon and Target.  Which I do.  Because he's a genius.  But he can't write.  Not even a little.  Like, if we sit down and try to write the letter A, we both end up in tears, with him declaring repeatedly "I just hate the letter A!" and me, chiming in, "I hate it, too!"  So, this really wasn't written by him.  But it could have been.  If he could write.  Because all of this has happened.  Most of it more than once.

Dear Diary,

Hello.  How are you?  (My kid really does have good manners, so this seems like a natural beginning for him.)  

I had a frustrating day today.  Once again, my mother told me that penis talk is private.  We obviously have vastly different views on what constitutes "private," which is where a great deal of my frustration stems from.  To me, private means that I should be allowed to openly discuss penises within the comfort of my own home, no matter who may be present, until the subject is absolutely exhausted or she distracts me with Oreos.  I find either option to be fulfilling.

To my mom, private means pretty much the same as "don't."  She's also started suggesting that I talk to Daddy about it.  And I do sometimes.  But then, when he's not at home, and I really need to talk about my penis, she refuses to let me call him, or else she hands me a fake cell phone and tells me to go to my room and pretend to call Daddy.  Uh - hello.  I'm not 2 anymore.  

Penis.  

Lately, I've been really interested in why.  I'm actually pretty deep and philosophical.  Mom is pretty good at answering a lot of my why questions, as long as I don't start asking "Why is this penis here?  Why do I have a penis?  Why don't you have a penis?"  This evening, when we sat down to eat dinner, I asked "Why is it always time for dinner?  Why do you try to make me eat chicken?  Why not noodles?"  My deep, philosophical, inquisitive nature must be rubbing off on her, because she turned to Daddy and asked, "Why do I even try?"  And then Dad made me some noodles, even though I screamed the entire time: "JUST LET MOMMY DO IT!  I NEED MOMMY TO MAKE MY NOODLES!  SHE LIKES MAKING THEM!"  She does like making them.  That's her job, I think.  Also, she just makes them better.  It's something in the way she boils the water or something.  I don't know.  Dad's noodles are just sub-par.  But they are better than chicken, so I did eat them.  

Do chickens have penises, I wonder?  I'll have to remember to ask.

We did make a brief foray out to the Dollar General today.  I like the yellow carts.  They have some silver metal ones, but I like the yellow ones.  I like them a lot.  No, I do not care if there are three metal ones Mom has to pull out in order to get a yellow one.  It's worth her extra effort. Yellow is great.  Yellow is awesome.  It's no red, to be sure, but on the spectrum of colors, yellow outshines rusted metal, every time.

Sometimes I like to help Mom push.  I wedge myself between her and the cart and walk very, very, very, very slowly, so she can keep up. Sometimes I like to sit in the front of the cart.  Lately Mom has been saying I'm getting too big for that, in which case I grab my lower back, bend over, and say, loudly, "Oh, my back is hurting!  Oh, it hurts so bad!" and hobble around until she puts me in there.  Sometimes, though, I like to sit in the back - it depends on what's in there.  Toilet paper?  Yes, please.  I like to rip the plastic off. Bread?  Absolutely.  I like to sit on it.  Any other food item?  No.  Absolutely not.  I am not going to eat that shit, I don't even want to be near it. Don't even think about putting it in there. Just no.
  
Today was a back-of-the-yellow-cart sort of day.  There was a Glade scented candle in there that was pretty neat.  I kept sniffing it and being cute.  I overdid it like always, though - sometimes I forget the strength of my own cuteness.  What I did was, I called my mom "sweethearts."  That's what she calls me, and when I say it, she does that thing where her eyes get all dewy with love, and then my eyes get all dewy with love, and we agree that we are, indeed, sweethearts.  But sometimes, when I am being super-cute like that, other people butt in.  Usually old ladies.  Like today.  This snowbird goes, "Oh, how precious!" which is fine, I don't mind commentary, but then she goes, "How old are you?"

Oh. My. God.  If I had a nickle for every time that question was asked, I'd probably have enough money to buy my mom a penis to replace the one she lost.

"Don't talk to me," I said, and hid my face.  

"Justin Ryan!" my mom said, in this voice she uses that I think is supposed to convey shock, so that people think I've never talked back in my life...lol.  "You be polite."

"Don't talk to me, please.  Just please don't talk," was my politest response - naturally.  But it must have been the wrong one, because Mom apologized and walked away.  Listen, don't spend months telling me stuff like "Don't interrupt others" and expect me to be okay with others interrupting me.  And this whole "Don't talk to strangers" concept is a pretty tough one for me to grasp if you are constantly expecting me to talk to strangers.  

Anyhow, it's bedtime now.  I know this because Mom has been saying it for thirty minutes.  She likes to warn me.  She knows I hate being startled by rushing me into the things we do at the exact same time, every night.  It's jarring to my system.  And to my penis.  

Sincerely,
Justin, Jr.