Vaughn often likes to provide me with bathroom entertainment whenever I venture to answer the call of Mother Nature. He evidently feels it is his sonly duty to keep me company whenever I use the toilet, because God forbid a mother should ever be left alone to "do her thing."
"Watch this."
While I sat on my front-row throne, he proceeded to perform a kind of Kindergartner version of self-mutilation, taking his excessively long fingernail (because I am so pro-hygiene that way. I barely get my own nails clipped, much less his) and scraped his fading tanned skin so that a long white line appeared in the nail's wake.
"_____________ (unintelligible or senile hearing or a combination) the person who sits next to me at school."
"What? The person who sits next to you does that to you at school?!" My mind starts formulating all the horrendous acts that my son is enduring at the Abu Ghraib that is his kindergarten class.
"No. I show that to her, the person who sits next to me."
"You do that for the girl who sits next to you?"
"Yeah. See?" He juts out his fat little arm to show me the white line has disappeared. "Ta-Da!" He beams.
"Wow, lucky girl."
Boys are so weird.
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