My Boobies! My Boobies!

It's hard to function as a Superhero when your underpants are agape.

Especially now that we’re in the middle of what seems like a postapocalyptic heat wave. If he’s home, that’s about all he’s wearing.

Lately, he’s taken to yelling, “My boobies! My boobies!” on occasion.

The first few times I was blissfully unsure about what he was referring to and just kind of laughed nervously (nervously because I am, of course, thinking about what will happen when he yells, “My boobies! My boobies! in a crowded public place).

This afternoon, we were hanging around the house and he was, as usual, wearing only a crappy pair of Old Navy underpants and a t-shirt, when he began to yell, “My boobies! My boobies!” again.

This time curiosity got the better of me. I put down my book (or laptop — whichever) and came into the playroom to find him sprawled out on the floor, tummy-down, surrounded by plastic dinosaurs of various sizes. He happened to be twisted around, looking at his underpants and I could clearly see that all of his junk was hanging out.

All of it.

That’s it. I’ve had it.

I took off the loosey-goosey underpants and threw them in the trash.

I may be down a few sets of underpants but I’ve gained two important pieces of information:

1. Old Navy makes crappy underpants for little boys and

2. Asher needs a preschool-style anatomy lesson.

I’m still not certain which part of his package he thinks is called boobies. Honestly, I thought it was better left unsaid.

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