The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: table talk

Another Spectacular Dinner Conversation

As I’ve told you before, we tend to have pretty hilarious and/or bizarre dinner conversations at my house (depending on your perspective).

My sweet husband, “The Gatekeeper,” is all about order and peace at the table. He really hates it when the kids and I get silly or inappropriate. And the man has a point there, really, I get it. But sometimes, we truly just can’t help ourselves.

The other night we were talking about ethnicity. My husband is 100% Italian; I’m more of a mutt. The kids absolutely despise that I ruined their chances of being purebred Italians.

So Mini-Me, desperately trying to find a way to be more than 50% Italian, pleaded, “Mom? Do you have any Italian in you?”

Those were her exact words.

I mean, come on.

In baseball, that’s what they call a “meatball” (ahem, speaking of Italians)…a perfect pitch right down the middle of the plate.

Look, I just don’t have it in me to not square up and knock that sucker out of the ballpark, even in front of children.

“Not at the moment.” I countered with a straight face, followed by a We-Make-Sexytime double eyebrow raise in my husband’s general direction (which on me, actually looks more like Groucho Marx having a petit mal.)

“Nice,” The Gatekeeper replied with an undertone of this is why our kids are like this. (He may or may not have been referring to various troublesome behaviors including a child who will not be named allegedly dropping trou on the playground the other day and getting sent to the preschool principal’s office on charges of indecent exposure.)

pic of bucket head preparing for trouble and in mismatched socks

...in trouble with more than just the Fashion Police.

Don’t worry, my joke went right over the kids’ heads, as I knew it would. They are way more interested in poop and fart talk than they are with the whole P-in-the-V concept…so far. Which is why it came as a big surprise that a few minutes later Mini-Me revealed that she was learning various gynecological terms at school. 

“We’re learning SPEC words in spelling.”

“SPEC words? What does that mean?” I asked.

“You know, words with SPEC in them. It’s a Latin root. It means see or look.”

“You’re learning Latin roots in 3rd grade? How cool is that?! You are going to rock your SATs, girl. What are some of the words on your list?”

“Inspect. Respect. Spectacle. Speculum…” she replied.

Hold up. Did you just say speculum?”

“Uh-huh. Speculum.”

Speculum is one of your spelling words? In third grade? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Also, perspective, spectator…”

“No. Really. You must be mistaken. There is NO way in Sam Hill that speculum is one of your spelling words. Get me that list.”

Meanwhile, The Gatekeeper and the boys were silently chewing their food, watching our dialogue like a tennis match. Mini-Me got up from the table, rooted through her backpack, and produced this:

my daughter's spelling list of words including the Latin root SPEC

 Quickly, I scanned the page.

“There’s no speculum on this list, Miss Thang.”

She leaned over to see it again and prove to me that I’m wrong.

Suddenly realizing her mistake, “Oh, I meant to say speculate.”

“Big diff, honey.”

“Well what is a speculum then? And why isn’t it on my list since it starts with SPEC?”

This would have been the ideal moment for me to be circumspect before answering.

“Oh. Well. Okay. A speculum is a special scope that doctors use to look inside your vagina.”

“WHAT?!”

“Don’t worry. Only grown-up women need to have those kind of exams.”

“Like a telescope? That goes into your vagina? And a doctor looks up in there? That is disgusting! Ew! I am never going to let anyone stick anything in my vagina!”

“AMEN sister. Let’s make t-shirts that say that,” I approved.

“Can we please change the conversation?” The Gatekeeper pleaded.

“Da-ji-na.” Bucket Head chimed in, better late than never.

The kids and I all started to giggle, nervously glancing at the head of the table.

“See? See what just happened?” The Gatekeeper admonished.

In retrospect, yes, yes I do. Maybe I need more Italian in me to win him over.

 

And that’s where baby corn comes from.

I wish you could come over for dinner sometime and see with your own eyes the kind of mayhem that exists around my kitchen table every night.

Just last evening alone, I witnessed:

1.) The Gatekeeper (husband) pleading with the rest of us to have “just one meal without any butt talk or bodily functions.”

2.) Mini-Me (9 y.o. daughter) showcasing a new magic trick: holding her own pinky with the rest of her fingers on the same hand and making it wiggle like a worm. (So freaky and gross! And also, hilarious! Might have to video tape it for you at some point.)

3.) Bucket Head (4 y.o. son) rattling off all the characters from the X-Men cartoon and explaining to us in vivid detail why Jean Grey would never marry Gambit, and then saying “Don’t worry mom, I said GAMBIT, with a G.”

4.) And my favorite moment from the night, a conversation about the origins of baby corn.

photo of baby corn

baby corn

We were having slow-cooker coconut ginger chicken and veggies discovered earlier this week on Pinterest. (Kids hated it, but The Gatekeeper and I had three bowls each. Delish! Thanks Elliot!)

While picking through the veggies for another bite of chicken,  Mini-Me cocked her head to the side and said, “Where does baby corn come from?”

Without missing a single beat, my 12 year old son Nature Boy said,

“Well, when a Mommy Corn and a Daddy Corn love each other very much…”

I swear to God.

The kid is TWELVE years old. He should have his own sitcom.

I’m telling you, I laughed until tears were streaming down my face. And then I saw that look in his eyes, that look of pride indicating, “Yeah, I made my mom laugh. Score!” I know that feeling. It’s the BEST.

Then I told the kids about the classic baby corn scene from Big. You know the one…

And we made plans to watch it together as a family later tonight. I can hardly wait!

(Updated: DO NOT watch “Big” with your kids. Holy CRAP. Totally inappropriate. See comments below.) 

By the way, according to the google, baby corn is just immature regular corn that is harvested before it has a chance to develop into big meaty flossable adult corn. Hey, the more you know. Frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t like to think of my veggies bumping uglies, especially in corn fields where dudes like Malachai could be hiding out with their scary sickles and shit.

So that’s the dealio with baby corn. Little red potatoes though? Totally different story…

Whoa...that is one happy sweet potato!

"The Vulvato" submitted by @NotSoSunshine

I was wondering what that thumping sound in my pantry was! Mystery solved.

Special thanks to @NotSoSunshine of TheFlyingWalleeties for sharing her spectacular “vulvato” with me on the twitter.

Have a good weekend, y’all.

jovially yours,

-Iris

© 2019 The Bearded Iris

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑