Paging Mr. JohnsonToday Eli 3.2 was in the living room singing the Thomas The Tank Engine theme song. Most three year olds sing in this flat, atonal voice that evokes sedative addiction. There's some whistling in the song as part of the refrain, and since he can't whistle yet, he has a little whistle that he'll use. It just plays one note, so it sounds totally wrong, but it still gives him great satisfaction to be whistling at the right moment in the song. Imagine a zombie reciting a tone poem and concluding with a piercing blast from a whistle.
Eli 3.2 is fully potty-trained now. This means that he will answer the question "Do you need to potty?" with a resounding "I don't think so" for about three hours, then five seconds later he'll yell "I NEED TO GO POTTY!" and race into the bathroom. So while he's singing the Thomas song, he sprints into the bathroom for a splash and dash.
He wraps the shower curtain around himself for privacy.
When he's done, he comes walking back into the living room, naked from the waist down, and yells "WHERE'S MY WHISTLE?" I'm doing everything I can not to burst out laughing, because I don't want to encourage this penis loose and fancy free display, but he looks so goofy that it's not easy.
"Dude, I don't need to see your Johnson swinging in the living room," I say.
"JOHNSON? What's my JOHNSON?" he asks.
"Your penis," I say.
"Why did you call it JOHNSON?" he asks. I'm now in serious trouble.
"Sometimes that's a word for penis," I say.
"MOMMY, LOOK!" he yells. "I HAVE A JOHNSON!"
I'll be home all afternoon. Deliver that Father of the Year award whenever it's ready.