Sunday, November 20, 2011

my protch.

she'd been wearing a hand-me-down, sparsely-sequined, extremely garish "recital costume" for about three hours, dancing slow interpretive/ballet dances in the living room to a weird al yankovic song on repeat. she'd eaten dinner in it. watched half an "electric company" episode in it. plastered an 8x10 piece of paper in painters tape in it (arts and crafts, you know the drill). and when we came upstairs to get in the bath, she reluctantly peeled it off.

"mom, it hurts me, right here," she said, pointing to her nether regions.

"oh, your vagina?" i asked. "no, like, out here," she said, pointing to either side of her groin, where the too-tight leotard portion of the costume had been chafing.

"oh, honey, your crotch. it means it's too small for you, love." i said, hopeful we'd be retiring it soon.

"yes," she said. "my protch."

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