Last night in the car my kids began to name all the words they know for butt, in English and in Spanish. It was a delightful five minutes, let me tell ya.

Then, of course, next came all the words they know for throw-up, buggers, and poop. By now even Matt is joining in on the fun. I, being the only adult left in the car, sat quiet and dignified in the front seat. Eventually someone, Lord I hope it was Noah or Isabel, shouted, “How about all the words we know for crotch?!” at which point I yelled, “No more!” and order was restored, followed by mumbles of the mom-is-no-fun variety from all involved.

I’ve been accused of not having a silly bone. It probably broke sometime during my sometimes difficult childhood and it never grew back.

As a result, when my children get silly, in my mind they turn into two-headed, odd creatures who speak a strange language I cannot decipher.

So what is the adult response to silliness you cannot understand? To lose your patience and yell, of course!

I felt bad later and apologized. I prayed something along the lines of the eloquent prayer of Rodney Atkins in his country song, “Lord, please help me help my stupid self.”

They will stop being so silly soon enough and their giggles will be replaced by moody, adolescent silence and I know I will pray for mercy then.

For now I’m learning to laugh along with them, which is not easy when you’re missing a silly bone. I wonder if there is such a thing as a silly bone replacement and if my insurance would cover it?

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