Last summer was huge. So much happened. In the blink of an eye, my daughter went from girl who had had a few dates to woman in love—and engaged! I consider it the summer I lost my daughter.
But before losing my little girl to a guy who adores her, it was the summer of a brand of silliness usually reserved for 12 year old boys.
Mister was out of town for work and both boys were on a long vacation with the grandparents. Beautiful couldn’t make the vacation trip due to her dance and work schedules. I opted to stay home because hey, when does a mom get a month with nobody asking anything of her? So it was just the two of us in the house--Beautiful and me. We watched girl TV. We rented girl movies. We ate cookie dough for dinner. And we laughed. A lot.
There was also that heat wave. One unbearable afternoon, after working and dancing all day, Beautiful came home and, having learned etiquette from watching The Simpsons, she took her pants off. Strolling her thonged self into the kitchen, she opened the fridge for a quick perusal. "Ooooh," she exclaimed, "that feels good!" Turning her hind quarters towards the shelves, she closed the door as far on herself as she could and stood there looking at me as if it was the most normal thing to be doing.
I said what any good mother would say faced with such a situation, "I refuse to eat food with buttprints on it!" And so it began. Naturally, we started naming all the ‘butt’ foods we could come up with: buttjuice, buttdogs, buttcheese, and (because we’re talking about my fridge) buttmold. It went downhill from there--as though there could be a downhill from there.
Everything from that point on could be (and was) relatable to butts or buttcracks. We buttcracked ourselves up. There were butt cereals (Cap’n Butt Crunch) and butt condiments (Hershey’s Chocolate Butt Syrup) and the new bookshelves got a special finish of buttcrackle glaze. We even had a theme song.
And then there was the time I called Beautiful while I was out for a walk, asking her to pick me up because I had fallen and fractured my buttcrack. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t get the punch line out. She kept asking "what?" and I kept blurting out "BUTTCRACK! BUTTCRACK!" People around me began shielding their children. I am quite sure it was widely believed there was a crazy lady with Tourette’s living in the neighborhood.
Enter Beautiful’s dear friend, J. Standing in our kitchen late one night, Beautiful mentioned something about a buttcrack in front of J. An explanation had to follow. Laughing our buttcracks off, J brought a whole new twist to our twisted existence. She christened our summer "ButtFest ’06." And she suggested commemorative tattoos. I won’t describe her original (and hilariously graphic!) design. Suffice to say, we didn’t run right out to get inked. We decided instead upon commemorative t-shirts. Jokingly, of course.
So, what do you think both Beautiful and J got from me for Christmas? Yep. Commemorative ButtFest ’06 t-shirts. We could not be more like 12 year old boys if we tried.