Yesterday morning, the Woman told Me to go upstairs and wake up the Boy. She was cooking breakfast, and She wanted Him down in twenty minutes. Like a good Husband I obeyed, after She yelled at Me like three times, and went upstairs to wake Our ten year old bundle of joy. When I popped into the room, I found the Boy stretched out on His back covered with a blanket from head to toe, and a pillow over His head. Before I yelled at Him "GIT YOUR PUNK ASS UP!", I paused and took a good look at Him. Something wasn't right. Something was....different about Him. Then it dawned on Me.... The boy was 'sleeping in a tent'. I dropped My head, put My hands on My hips, and muttered "Oh yeah. It's on now!". I looked back up at Him laying there all peaceful. Memories came flooding back of Me checking in on Him at all hours of the night when He was a baby or a toddler. He was always so damned cuddly and cute and shit. What lay before Me was no longer that cute fat baby. It was now......a 58lb spindly bag of hormones. It disgusted Me. I slammed the door and yelled "GIT UP BOY!" not wanting to have to make eye contact with it (the boy, not the other thing) and have Him (the boy, not the other thing) be all embarassed at His current state of condition. I ran downstairs and turned towards the kitchen thinking about how thoroughly impressed I was with the...ummm....the HEIGHT and tautness....of 'the tent. He's definately gonna have Me beat. So I run into the kitchen and snatch up My coffee, turn to the Woman, and have this conversation with Her that confused Her, but She needed to hear anyway. Here it is...... Me: (slurping coffee) The boy is sleeping in a tent. Her: Huh? Me: The Boy is sleeping in a tent. Her: I love it. My baby is still making tents. That's so cute. Me: No. You don't understand. He's sporting wood. Her: What? Sporting wood? Me: (slurping) That's right....wood. Her: What the Hell does THAT mean? Me: It means SPORTING WOOD! GOOD GOD WOMAN! ARE YOU DENSE?! KUHPAP! Me: OW! Sorry. Listen. It's that time. The Boy is almost eleven. He's uhhhh....gonna start changing. Her: Ohhhh...I get it. The little General is standing at attention. Me: That's right. And thank You for remembering My favorite phrase. Now, over the next year or so, the Boy is gonna start locking Himself in His room, and locking the bathroom door when He showers. He's gonna want...uhh...His 'private time'. Don't eff with Him. He's gonna have to get it out of His system. If not, He'll be Hell to live with. Her: But...I don't want Him growing up and doing that! Make Him stop! Me: Pff. It'd be easier to hold back the tide with a broom, than make a young Boy not do.....THAT (slurp). Her: (Turning back to Her cooking) Y'all are gross. Y'all need to learn how to restrain Yourselves. Me: No way. Can't be done. We HAVE to do it. Her: Men are weird. Us Women can refrain. Me: Psh. That's cause Y'alls stuff is tucked inside and shit. Ours juts out everywhere. Can't go out in public 'JUTTING' now can We? Her: Well, if You tried hard enough Y'all could. You uh...still....? Me: (slurping) PFFFT! Daily. In fact I've already done it once today, and all this talk about it is making Me want to do it again! HAHAHAH- KUHPAP! Me: OW! Anyway, leave the Boy alone and let nature take it's course. Her: FINE! Me: Oh, and by the way, You're gonna be doing THREE TIMES the amount of laundry than normal. Socks, bedsheets, blankets, towels, and pretty much anything else the Boy can find to attach Himself to. Have fun (slurping). Her: Thanks. The end.