A picture of me and my kids and my friend Ruthanne at Astroworld on my birthday several years ago, when my kids were a couple years older than their ages in the story below!
Jesus in a Thong? (forgive my irreverence)
by Wendee Holtcamp
"I think you need a belt, Savannah," I tell my seven-year old daughter. I can see her melon-colored panties peaking out an inch above the top of her jeans.
"I just like to show my underwear," she retorts.
We're sitting around the dinner table, about to have a slightly off-color conversation. Recalling an article I'd read about peek-a-boo thongs, I tell my husband, "The trend with teenagers now is to wear a thong so it can be seen outside the back of your jeans."
"Gross!" he contorts his face hideously. "Don't those things, like, go up your bottom?"
"What is a thong?" Savannah interrupts.
"Thongs are underwear that just have a string that, well, goes up your bottom," I explain.
"Eww," my five-year-old says. "They go up your butt?!"
"They don't exactly go up your butt," I say, trying not to burst out laughing. "They just go in your butt crack." As soon as I say it, I know I probably shouldn't have. I'm not one to pretend such things don't exist, but I'm really wondering how this conversation will affect our urgent attempts to convince Sam to stop saying the word butt all the time.
"Let's stay on the side of Jesus now," my husband pleads.
I can't help cracking up. "I don't think Jesus minds thongs," I say.
"Jesus would not wear a thong!" he demands.
"I have a thong," I say, trying to change my mental image of Jesus in a thong.
Savannah's eyes perk up. "I want to see it!"
"I don't wear it very often, it's not very comfortable." I'm mentally recalling the hilarious line from Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues where the woman with the "angry" vagina is cursing thongs.
"Can I see it? Pleeeeease!" she begs.
"Ok, ok, I'll show you later. It's no big deal."
"I think it's time to steer this conversation back on track," my husband says.
Later that night, as I'm tucking Sam into bed, I'm certain that our strange conversation has been forgotten. We're saying our nightly prayer, and then he leans over and whispers in my ear, "It's so funny that they go up your b-u-t-t-c-r-a-c-k," Sam giggles.
I sigh. At least he didn't say the word. He spelled it.
