The other day, I was playing with my nephew Parker in my mother’s backyard back home in Lubbock. Jackson the Superbeagle is standing in front of him with his tail at half-mast and Parker walks up to his backside, hunches over like he’s about to touch his own toes and points at Jackson’s backside and bursts out with, “What’s that?” Pointing at Jax’s back end, but not really sure what he’s asking about, he asks again.
I’m thinking I’ll just let it blow over or try to divert him from what ever part of Jax he’s pointing at. I’m thinking it’s either his cornhole or his unit that he’s spotted between his legs from the backside. Either way, I feel that, as his uncle, I’m not really at liberty to explain either. I remain nervously silent.
“What is that?”
He’s becoming more insistent. “Come on, Parker J. Let’s go inside.” Doing anything I can to pull him away from Jackson (who is oblivious to Parker staring at his backside). It was like I had a gun to my head and he was asking me to explain quantum physics. I kept thinking just give him the G-rated explanation, but I locked down. I’m standing there as the sky darkened. The world was closing in on me. It was like that time I got busted sleeping in my college spanish class. My mouth gaping open, my eyes widened like I just got punched in the groin. “Uhhhhhhh.”
Then, all of the sudden, Parker snaps upright, looks directly at me and proclaims, “That’s where his poop comes from.”
“Yep,” I reply with a gentle exhale. “That’s right, Parker.”
Girls are cool because they don’t care about a dog’s cornhole. In fact, they’re typically repulsed by it. The most awesome part of that story is that Parker knew precisely what he was pointing at. He just wanted me to tell him. Kid was testing me to see if I’d tell him what it was. Aw, that Parker. Tricky lil’ fella. All I had to do was wait him out. Plead the fifth. Act like I didn’t hear him. Hadn’t been in that situation before. It’s like Parker was simulating a real-life situation where the child is insistent on knowing all the gory details and you’re forced to pick your words wisely as to seal closed his curiosity, but not necessarily leave him without enough information. “That’s where poop comes from.” That’s all I had to answer with. Although, if he was pointing at his pecker and not his pooper and I answered with “that’s where poop comes from,” then that would’ve been a really strange oopsie to have to answer to later.
I naturally accuse my brother for setting up that situation to make me sweat. Thanks, brotherman. It’s Wednesday and remember, if all else fails you, just answer with “That’s where poop comes from.” An approved answer for a three year old pointing at your dog’s backside asking, “What’s that?”