How Far Is Too Far? How Much Is Too Much?

Boogers and poop.  That is what so many of our dinnertime conversations degenerate into.  It doesn't go straight from, "pass the potatoes," to "boogers and poop."  No!  It's usually a downward spiral starting about the time we have all shoveled at least three forks full of whatever's on the menu into the pie hole.  It begins innocently enough--someone (a kid) steps three whole feet away from the table and grins.  Whether we have heard anything or not, the best guess is always that there was some small attempt made at the mannerly relief of gas.  Me?  I personally think they should go outside and down the road a ways if we are all sitting around the dinner table, but that doesn't seem to be anyone else's conviction.  Sometimes, the offender mumbles the 2012 phrase for, "Excuse me."  My bad.  Next thing you know, it's fifteen minutes later, the kitchen is filled with raucous laughter, loud guffaws, people falling out of their chairs, and completely atrocious manners.

It is at this point that my dear hubby and I look at each other helplessly and say, with sad resolve, "Yes, dear, we have, indeed, become Dan and Roseanne .  But is it all bad?  Some of you would curl a lip in disgust, not even giving me the benefit of your correction. 

I had this conversation with a fella after we were pulled up about singing a TRADITIONAL camp song at a Cub Scout event.  My husband and I were both den leaders and the song, "The Bear Went Over the Mountain," is adorable.  It involves a little bear going over the mountain, seeing a bunch of Girl Scouts, eating up the Girl Scouts, taking Alka-Seltzer, and then barfing up the Girl Scouts.  The Girl Scouts tell his mommy and she "spanks his little bottom."  You know why it was inappropriate?  It was not honoring to women.  In this conversation with the dad who was appalled by our choice of songs, I said:  "C'mon, [insert name], you have sons.  Can you honestly tell me most of your dinnertime conversations don't degenerate into boogers and poop?"  Ummm--his lip, indeed, curled in disgust.

"No," he whispered in a deep and slow and scary way.  "That is not appropriate dinnertime conversation."

Here's me:  "My bad."  (That means excuse me in today's vernacular.)

Sometimes things get out of hand--like if we have stiff company (which is not often) or we are at a restaurant.  Our kids don't seem to make the distinction between HOME and OUT all the time.  Sometimes, we don't--I'll admit it.  One afternoon, we were at an Old Country Buffet with another family (also given to fun dinners), and there was a small incident.  Several of the kids took some of the littler ones to the bathroom.  They were gone kinda long but we didn't notice--we were enjoying adult conversation for once.  Then a manager approached us.  His face was purple.  He looked frantic, angry:  "Where are the responsible adults?" he demanded.

We all four stopped in mid-conversation and looked at him blankly for a little longer than is polite.  Then, as if on cue, we all looked to one another and shrugged.  He said something about kids and the bathroom and stomped away.  We fell out of out chairs laughing.  Then, of course, the moms high-tailed it to the bathroom to correct our mannerless children.  (Our bad.)