Monkey Butts

My husband and the boys bought me a St. Louis Cardinal’s sock monkey as a Mother’s Day present, and the little guy rides beside me on the front seat of our truck. Sometimes, he even snuggles in my lap. But the other morning I needed to clear the fog from the inside of my windshield, and he was the first bit of cloth I could get my hands on.

“Mom,” Younger ventured, casting a sideways glance at me as I swiped at the glass with the doubled-over monkey. “Does Dad know you do that?”

Exhausted, and a bit sick, I grumbled, “I don’t know what your dad knows.” But then, repentant for the snarky response, I added, “Actually, I think your dad is the kind of man who would take a certain amount of pride in admitting that his wife cleans her windows with a monkey’s butt.”

Younger grinned. “There is that.”

We’re not a family that will ever survive on our dignity.

But laughter will keep us fine.

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3 responses to “Monkey Butts

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