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Published on February 11th, 2014 | by Richard Black


Someone Has Some Explaining To Do…

One of the many pleasures of raising children is the fact that I have no idea what in the hell will happen next.

On any given day I can bank on a fair amount of nagging, whining, phlegm, the occasional “I love you daddy” from my daughter. The rest of the time it’s like listening to a free form poet who plays with dolls after a couple of doses of LSD .

Think Tijuana in Disneyland but without the donkey show.

A few days ago Darcy was playing with a small doctor’s kit her mother and I had given her at some point over the past year.  The three of us had just finished watching the opening ceremony for the 2014 Winter Olympics and my daughter was giving my wife a checkup before bed.

Darcy started out, as she does during most of these examinations, with the stethoscope. After muttering to herself and shaking her head Darcy picked up the reflex hammer and began gleefully whacking away at my wife’s knees before prescribing a series of injections with a plastic syringe.

For some reason I’ve never been privy to the doctor’s kit includes a plastic pair of scissors and Darcy always concludes the examination with a haircut, presumably to show the clientele how thorough she is in taking care of her patients.

And so after our daughter made a few cursory snips of my wife’s hair we were a little surprised to see Darcy pick up an Otoscope (sanyone can sound smart when they have access to Google) and asked her mother to open her mouth.

Laura complied, Darcy peered around, tentatively poked at a few teeth, turned off the light, and gave her diagnosis.

“Momma,” my daughter said gravely, “you’ve got a testicle in your mouth.”

It is safe to say that I wasn’t sure whether to shit myself of giggle like a twelve year old.

We both immediately asked Darcy to repeat her “diagnosis” with two distinct and mutually exclusive intentions.

I had the fervent hope that by repeating the phrase our daughter would confirm that she had, in fact, told my wife that there was a testicle in her mother’s mouth.

Laura asked Darcy to repeat her diagnosis under the belief that our daughter had mangled the pronunciation of some other word like “tentacle” instead of “testicle’ neither of which, I feel compelled to point out, belong in a woman’s mouth in front of a three year old.

“It’s a testicle momma,” Darcy confirmed, “In your mouth,”  she added with emphasis prompting two of the three people in the room to laugh hysterically.

“You have some explaining to do,” my wife said meaningfully.

“I am not the one with a testicle in my mouth,” I fired back with as much poise as I could muster and dodged strategically thrown pillow.

She’s right of course.

My wife almost always is. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do but not in this particular case.  Offhand I can think of a few dozen euphemisms I’ve used instead of the word “testicles” as my daughter rammed an elbow, knee or foot in my tenders; balls, nuts, tackle, as well as the rarely used Latin form “testiclees”.

If I were a better man I would have left it alone but I’m not. I’m so rarely given the opportunity to be right these days.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” I asked prompting my sweet, gullible and loving wife to turn over, “about the testicle I mean. You should probably see a doctor.”

“I already have sweetie,” she said before she rolled back over and went to sleep, “it’s nothing to worry about. It’s not cancerous and it wasn’t yours.”

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