Hanging out with two lively six year olds puts an interesting spin on life and its perspectives. I learn a lot from the way they think because their thoughts are uncompromised by judgment and what essentially jumps out of their mouths usually makes me laugh a lot. Sometimes they are aware that they are being funny, sometimes they are not, and sometimes I have to leave the room because tears of hilariousness are escaping down my face.
The latest and greatest has been during a game of cards when my neph innocently informed me that ‘women pee out their bums because the front bit is blocked’, when he told his cousin about the death of my uncle and aunt’s dog saying that the dog had ‘passed out’, and when they were gossiping about how Justin Bieber was Katy Perry’s ex-boyfriend. Bless the nature of innocent natter that makes aunty’s stomach muscles silently contract from carefully concealed laughter.
But bums (hello sneaky pun), bums are the butt of all jokes and anything to do with them. In the last week I’ve had my behind prodded in public followed by giggles, been subjected to bums playing peek-a-boo, I’ve been ‘bopped’ (karate bum chopped) and had to deal with silent but violent farts in the car that came with the post-disclaimer ‘I told you that my ones were bad’. And it hasn’t just been the six year olds cracking up, the sound of drumming on a bum mesmerised a bubba into smiling.
I’m not sure if it’s because their eye level is around heiny height or if it’s just an obsession with derriere and all of its idiosyncrasies, but a round rump induces some hearty larrikin behaviour and laughter. I’ve had to learn to salute the glute and all of its uproarious glory.