So, for Mo’s birthday, I took her to get her ears pierced.  I know that in the mommy-verse, there’s a raging debate about ear piercing, if and when it’s appropriate, is is mutilation and so on and forth.  I don’t really think about it like that. Truth be told, she wanted either an American Girl Doll for $100 + dollars or a Nintendo DS. I offered up ear piercing as a compromise and she bit.  Plus, it’s a lesson in responsibility; she has to clean her ears, twist the posts, all that jazz.  At seven, she’s old enough.  I was nine when I got my ears pierced. I was in my twenties when I got two more holes put in my right ear and one put in my cartilage. As for my foray into body piercing, I wasn’t putting my belly button on display, but I had no problem sticking out my tongue.

Anyway, Mo gets her ears pierced.  She gets a big bottle of ear disinfectant and cleaner and is advised to soak some cotton balls with the solution to clean her ears.  I open up the medicine cabinet and no cotton balls.  For a few days, we use q-tips, but I know that I’ve got to make it official and get the cotton balls.  The problem is, I keep forgetting.  Finally, finally, finally, I make it to the store, and by some miracle, I remember to throw them in the cart.  Actually, I was trolling the aisles because I left my list in the car, yet again, and happened to bump into an end-cap display of cotton balls.

I get home, whereupon Craig and I start unloading the bags.  Co dances her way into the kitchen looking for (what else?) a snack.  She spies the bag of cotton balls, picks it up and says, “What are these?”

(source)

Me: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and balls?

at which point, I am about to bust a gut to keep from laughing, but am immediately silenced by the death glare boring into my skull from Craig.

Me: No, dear. Cotton. Balls.

Co: That’s what I said! Cock. and. Balls.

Now Mo has come into the kitchen in search of a snack and picks up on the conversation.

Mo: Cotton balls.

Co: Cock and Balls.

Me: COTTON. COTTON. 

Craig: Enough. Gimme the bag.

Ohhh, c’mon, that’s funny stuff.  Highly inappropriate, therefore highly entertaining.  So of course, I have to tell someone.

Good thing my big brother is on speed dial.