Last evening, while unpacking a bag of toiletries from the store. . . .
Me: Hey, boys. Put this in your shower and use it on your face.
The Ginger: Um, I don’t think so. It’s kind of inappropriate looking.
Me: There’s nothing inappropriate about face wash. It’s great for blackheads and I bought the mens’ version so it doesn’t smell like a “Chick Product.” Use it.
The Giant: Nah. It looks insensitive.
Me: I’m not trying to be insensitive. There are blackheads on your nose. Use the wash. I love you regardless of the status of your pores. Female society at large might not share my unconditional approval.
The Giant: No. It is black. I’m not using a black face wash.
Me: Nobody is going to SEE you in the SHOWER, you jackass. You rinse it off.
The Giant: Blackface is inappropriate and insensitive even in private, Mom.
The Ginger: Yeah. Just so you know, this is definitely turning into one of those stories that I will tell my grandchildren–the time my mom made me put on blackface every day in the shower.
Me: Put. It. In. Your. Shower.
The Giant: This “Yes, Ma’am” is brought to you by a conscientious objector.
The Ginger: Yeah, I’ll feel so dirty about getting clean.
This morning, as I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee, the Giant enters the kitchen looking serious. . .
The Giant: I feel TERRIBLE.
Me: <panic> How?! Where?! Did you barf?
The Giant: It’s just. It’s just that I feel like. . . like I’ve seriously wronged a significant group of people. My face. My face just feels. . . . racist.
The Ginger, slowly coming down the stairs, acting like he’s melting into the floor.
The Ginger: I’m soooooorry Democratic paaaartyyyyyy. . . .
Me: You DO understand that inferring that a racial sensitivity is specific to a political party is ridiculous, right?
The Giant: You DO understand that the ridiculous fruit is landing right underneath the ridiculous tree, right?
I slid their ommeletes on their plates, grabbed my coffee mug and left the kitchen and heard. . .
The Giant: I’m thinking we should let up or she’s going to make us eat cereal for dinner.
Then. . . Loud fork clink.