Well, last night it finally happened.
Jeff and I were...um...how can I put this....we were walked in on....
It's official. Rollie has been scarred for life.
So as not to further make any of my dear readers uncomfortable (this means you, Dad), I will spare you the details. Just know that Coitus Interruptus has taken on a whole new meaning.
This event has made me wonder exactly how much of Rollie's childhood he'll remember. He's three-and-a-half right now. I remember some things from that age. Which is why I'm thinking now's a good time to stop scolding him when I'm say, half-dressed. The last thing I want is for him to harbor awful memories of me putting him in Time Out, then storming off to my bedroom, my underwear-clad ass jiggling all the way. I have a feeling Time Outs will start be lose their effectiveness if I hear him snickering as I exit the room.
But maybe these moments won't become too deeply rooted in his little brain. Maybe I still have time to redeem myself and he won't grow up with the image of my Big Bottom burned into his subconscious. The handful of memories I do have from that young mostly revolve around walking with my mother down our street to collect litter and put it in a trash bag. It seems like we did that an awful lot. Perhaps she was an inmate on a work-release program back then? I do vaguely remember a striped outfit she wore on more than one occasion.... And I do remember her hands always being wet. Of course, now I see why. I feel like I'm always washing my hands now--if I had six kids, my new nickname would be Lady McBeth.
One thing I do clearly remember is my mother telling me I have a photographic memory. I'm pretty sure she did this so I wouldn't feel so bad about being chubby and wearing hideous pink glasses and hand-me-down clothing. I took her claim very seriously; I think even bragged about it once or twice to my friends, truly believing I had super-human powers of recollection. I'm sure my friends were likely not as blown away as I was (wow, Becky, you can remember where you left your Trapper Keeper and your Gem doll...whoppee-doo). Looking back I can now safely say I most certainly do not have a photographic, optophonic, subatomic or even semi-decent short-term memory (see the iPhorget entry for a refresher course....at least, I think that's the entry...).
I'm certain my short-memory has been ravaged by what one of my friends has dubbed the "Give A Mom A Muffin Syndrome" (again, at least I think that's what she called it). This phenomenon occurs because moms are usually in the middle of a hundred different things....give her a muffin and she'll take it from you, walk with it into another room, then set it down somewhere when she suddenly notices mateless socks on the floor, dishes in the sink, a GI Joe floating in the toilet, and she'll become so absorbed in taking care of those things that when she finally has a second to think, she'll have a hard time remembering what a muffin even is, much less where the f*ck she put the one you gave her.
....What was I talking about before? Oh yeah, I was wondering whether or not Rollie would remember the night he crept into my bedroom to find Mommy and Daddy sleeping in a very funny position. I'm hoping that we handled it nonchalantly enough to where he'll simply dismiss it. I think I sufficiently distracted him with some chocolate milk and a rendition of Lida Rose so that he will forget any bedroom acrobatics he'd just witnessed.
If not, then I suppose we could always designate some of his college funds to psychotherapy. Right after we install a deadbolt on our bedroom door.