The Easter bunny brought the boys some sponge pills. You know, the plastic capsules that dissolve in warm water and open up into little sponges shaped like animals and bugs and amoebas and shit.
They’ve had tons of fun watching the tiny sponges open and guessing what the creature is supposed to be (Well, Huck does that. Worm just likes to throw them out of the tub and laugh hysterically while I wipe up eleventy million tiny puddles). I, however, have been completely freaked out by the tiny sponges and now wish I had shown the kids the dead bunnies
on Easter morning rather than give them these gifts.
I think those bunnies are NOT resting in peace in my front bushes. I think their evil little spirits are effing with me through the Easter goodies.
We did the safari animals on Monday night. First, the ostrich was headless. Second, the elephant was trunkless and tailless. Third, the lion was missing a paw. The lion is is my astrological sign, so I took it a little personally, but didn’t suspect foul play by evil ghost bunnies at this point.
Tonight we did sea creatures. At first, they weren’t too bad. The crab was a little smooshed and the shark and dolphin were virtually indistinguishable, but no parts were missing. Things took a bad turn when we got to the whales.
There were two whales. They both looked like whales, but different enough from each other that they were clearly different types of whale. Huck insisted I figure out exactly what they were supposed to be. I started to just make something up, but then I remembered that the back of the package had a diagram of the sponge types.
I picked up a tiny red sponge whale and found its shadow match on the back of the package. “It’s a killer whale!” I announced. Then I picked up a tiny blue whale and found its shadow match on the back of the package “It’s a…. um…. whale!” I mumbled.
“Mama, does it not say what kind?” asked my sweet, rule-following little boy who thinks everything always turns out fair and even.
“Um, no, it just says whale”, I lied.
People, it said sperm whale.
Some weird prude girl who I have never met, crawled up from the depths of my psyche and would not allow me to say the word sperm to my son. He’s six, the word sperm is just a word in his vernacular. There’s no sexual connotation for him. I knew all of this, but I still couldn’t say it.
I think the bunnies knew I would stumble with this parenting rite of passage and changed the wording on the package just to trip me up.