A is for "Apple." B is for "Buttalks."

There is that phrase, "All I need to know about life, I learned in kindergarten."

Hot dog. It's proving to be true.

And then some.

Noah has come home with all kinds of new words lately.

A couple weekends ago, we went camping with some friends. And, in the midst of all our getting back to nature activities like dancing to Boom, Boom Pow (blaring from the speakers attached to the MP3 player) and playing Go Fish, I hear Noah say something to Kendyl about, "my Mom." As in, not "Mommy." Just "Mom." As in, he's suddenly too cool to be my baby. I am secretly licking my "I Want to be Mommy for Awhile Longer" wounds when I hear him say something like, "Give it to Jen."

So now the six year old and his "Mom" are on a first name basis.

Wounded.

We are a few weeks into kinder when Noah trots through the door one day and announces, with a little too much gleam in his eyes, that he needed to "take a wizz." Kid, I realize as I type this, I don't even know if wizz is spelled wizz, whiz or wiz. But, it turns out, "Jen" is not cool with the phrase, "take a wizz."

Then there was something about, "I can fit my butt in my mouth." And though I'd like to think I have a sense of humor, I'd also like to think that "butt" of his isn't so small it can't be swatted because he knows a line has been crossed. Oh, the boy knows. I see the gleam in his eyes. I see right through you, Noah Jack.

So, yes, we have had some nice Jen and Son convos about choosing good words and not repeating everything others say, etc., etc.

I have a feeling we'll be having these conversations for the next 12 years.

Then there are some things that just go with boyhood that I'm, oddly, finding myself okay with.

Take, for instance, the armpit toot.

Noah came home one day, hand in his armpit, pumping his elbow up and down so fiercely I almost called him derrick and checked for oil. It was fruitless labor as he didn't quite have the proper technique to achieve what he was working toward. That is one of those delicate balances where much more can be achieved with much less effort. Sort of like whistling. You wouldn't get a good whistle by blowing with too much force.

Did I just devote an entire paragraph to the art of the armpit toot?

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

Did I ever in my life expect to string together the words, "the art of the armpit toot?"

Why, no. No, I didn't.

But, it turns out, I'm the "Mom" of two boys and, I'm sorry, but when your kid is sitting in the tub and he looks up at you with big, sweet brown eyes and sincerely asks, "Mommy, can you teach me how to do armpit farts?" how can you say no? I felt like I'd be letting him down if he couldn't join in the playground symphony of the armpits. There are just some things a boy ought to know, I suppose.

So, a few weeks into kinder, I find myself in an out of body experience as I take a deep breath, place my hand under my shirt, cup it over my armpit and do my best to demonstrate. And to take this to a new level of surreal, I am actually adjusting and readjusting his hand over his armpit and encouraging him to never give up because, "you just have to practice and I know you'll get it, buddy."

Out. of. body. experience.

The problem is (there are so many problems with this), I've never in my life actually been able to produce an armpit toot. I just know of the ideal hand placement and I do all I can to talk him through it. I find myself the next day actually encouraging Brian to get in there and show Noah how it's done.

And, I feel I must add, Noah conquered the art of the armpit toot within 24 hours.

Pride. It's right here. In Jen's heart.

Two nights ago, I wanted to spend some one on one time with Noah. He'd had such a great evening and I was looking forward to reading to and just hanging out with him. We were shoulder to shoulder as he listened intently to the story of the blind man healed by Jesus in John 9. I tried to make the story come alive as we pictured together how it must've been before and after the man's healing. We imagined Jesus spitting into the dirt and creating a clay to place on the man's eyes. And, man, what it must've been like to see for the first time. Ooh, such good, good stuff.

As that story finished, Noah asked me to tell him a "fiction" story. So, I weaved together a tale of a sapling who, year after year, grew more jealous of all the things around him that were taller...the grass, the weeds and the flowers. And in the end, while the sapling so longed to be like the things around him, what he didn't realize was that his roots were deeper and stronger and how it's so much more important for what's unseen to grow than it is to be tall or beautiful, etc. on the outside. I was so proud of mine and Aesop's ability to piece together a good fable as Noah and I started to list how we grow our insides to be strong...by loving others well, being kind, using nice words, etc.

And that is precisely when Noah knocked me back down to earth by saying, "Like, we shouldn't call someone a buttocks..."

Here is where I wanted to say...Hey, Kid. I told you a cool story about Jesus and His awesomeness in giving the blind man sight and then I went all Aesop on you and made up a pretty sweet story with a moral to it and now you are concluding this special Jen and Son time by pointing out that we shouldn't call someone a "buttalks".

While we're at it, let me just clear things up for you.

No, it is not okay to call someone a "buttalks."

No, it is not okay to call someone a "little big butt."

And, no, it is not okay to use the phrase, "butt crack."

In fact, let's just do away with the use of "butt" altogether.

No, you will not "take a wizz" or, let's just establish it before you ask, "take a leak" or "pinch a loaf" as long as you are under this roof.

No, I am not interested in hanging out with anyone whose "butt can fit into their mouth." For one thing, that's not even possible.

And I am glad you are so super duper excited that you have achieved the perfect armpit toot. So much so that you now greet me with the sight of you vigorously pumping them out as I make my way up the carpool lane to pick you up. I am one proud Jen. (Though I am sorry your armpit is red and raw from all the practice you put into learning how to do armpit toots. In one day. There is a such thing as being overzealous. Maybe you'll learn that in Kindergarten, too.).

And, one last thing, child of mine. You are a boy. And you are in kindergarten. And you know how to armpit toot. And, you may call me Mom in front of your friends.

BUT. The fact is, I notice you still call me "Mommy" when it's just the two of us.

Yep, I see right through you, Noah Jack.