I have been in a new level of parenting lately.  I hate to admit that I trudge along in the daily grind so much that I don’t see the forest for the trees.

For example, right now my kids, Tater in particular, thinks “poop in your pants” is the funniest thing, ever.  If I had a quarter for every time I have heard that phrase this summer, I wouldn’t be wearing shorts I bought on my honeymoon 8 years ago.  Catholic school tuition?  No longer a worry.  I have heard it THAT MUCH.  At the dinner table, bath time, any time is good for my eldest to comment “he pooped in his pants!”  Even now, he is singing a song about pooping in your pants.

While at the park today, I had my epiphany.

Two little boys were on the bench next to me.  I kept hearing the word “fart” followed by peals of laughter.  Their mom looked up from her book and said “watch your language!”  I suspect that was for my benefit (I am not raising them to be wolves, I promise, but for the love of God could I just read my book while you guys are at the biggest playscape in the area?).

The proverbial lightbulb had sprung over my head.

“They aren’t say, 6 or 7 years old, are they?  Because I have one that age, and I feel your pain.”

“Oh yes, they are” she laments.  “And potty humor is the highlight of their lives.”

And there you go.  This poor, beleaguered woman confirmed the forest I had not been seeing.

Poop in your pants?  The pinnacle of hilarity for Tater’s age group.  Farts, anything covered by a swimsuit, and bodily functions are the BEST THINGS EVER.

How did I miss this?  How did I not realize it?

I am living with the demographic that made Adam Sandler a wealthy man (ok, and those that never quite left this developmental stage).

It isn’t as if I don’t appreciate toilet humor.  I can think of specific Jim Carrey moments(do NOT go in there!).  I have enjoyed South Park and Beavis and Butthead.  I have watched most of Adam Sandler’s movies (though most of them during my tenure at the juvenile home, where PG-13 was as good as it got, and the population was primarily teenage boys).

However, there is a saturation point that must be respected.  Thirty to ninety minutes?  I can do that.  Fourteen hours a day?  It’s enough to make one contemplate a variety of escapes, from ear plugs, to locking them outside, to listening to “Mother’s Little Helper” on repeat and wondering if they still hand out Valium like candy (the last one’s a JOKE, people, should you be of the “stick up your arse”  kind that somehow found your way to my blog).

I guess I was most relieved to discover that this a normal little boy thing.  I am not even sure how I didn’t realize it, except that my son was more into shipwrecks and military than farts up until recently.  You say to yourself, well, they are running naked through the yard while covered in mud, but they aren’t setting fires or torturing animals, so I guess I am doing okay so far (two out of three on the serial killer trifecta.  The final is bedwetting, never a problem here).

But seriously, I guess it just means I need to lighten up.  Civilizing children is a long process.  Why else do we have to take care of them for nearly two decades, if not longer?

Please, don’t let it be longer!