Chase and The Pope

My mom was Catholic, so we grew up with her often saying, “I don’t care if The Pope told you to do it. . .” And variations thereof. I pulled this line on Matt one time, and being the heathen that he is he found it hilarious, didn’t understand the concept and asked me what The Pope had to do with anything. So now threats of The Pope are a running joke in the household. My mother is rolling in her grave I’m sure, and also we may go to Hell. *shrug* I respect The Pope but really some hilarious things get said in reference to His Holiness.

That being said, here’s tonight’s hilarity. If you’re the ever offended type just do yourself a favor and stop here.

Chase had basketball camp, followed by a day at his aunts with his cousins followed by an evening running around barefoot in the grass and playing in his sandbox with Matt and J. I got distracted writing on another piece and realized it was 926pm and the boy needed to be in bed. I called him down from Matt’s room to get ready for bed, and after attempting unsuccessfully to just wash him up I threw him into the shower, where he whined and cried for the three minutes it took to wash his hair and body. I scooped him out and dried him off and discovered that his toes still had dirt caked underneath the nails.

“Jeeze oh petes,” I muttered. “You could build a damn sand castle with all that dirt.” He looked down at his toes and back up at me.

“So? It doesn’t matter.” He replied. Typical 6 year old boy.

“What would The Pope say?” I inquired. (See. No reason for The Pope to be involved. He just is.)

“Mommmm. The Pope isn’t even real!” Feigning distress, I gasped.

“Oh yes he is!” I said, wrapping him in his towel and helping him off of the lid of the toilet. “He’s the head of the Catholic religion!” He looked at me in disbelief.

“No he isn’t!”

“Yes he is! Ask anybody!”

Screwing up his face, Chase shook his head.

“Ask Matt, or Grandma. . .”

“The hulk?” He interjected.

“Sure.” I said, rolling my eyes and laughing. “Go ahead and ask a fictional character if The Pope is real.”

We continued about our nightly routine, Chase as always climbing on counters while I readied his allergy medicines.

“Dude. Get your nasty toes off my counters!” I admonished. At this point grandma came into the kitchen and backed me up by saying she had just cleaned the counters, and looking disapprovingly at his dirt caked toes. “You can’t tell he’s my kid,” I said sarcastically, referring to the fact that I myself am often covered in dirt and scraping dirt from underneath my own nails and the bottoms of my feet. Grandma laughed.

“I am so your kid!” Chase exclaimed.

“How do you know?” I asked as I measured zyrtec into a measuring cup.

“Because you’re my mom!”

“Says who?!”

“The Pope.” He responded nonchalantly.

Oh, these sarcastic smart ass kids of mine. . .

Sorry, Pope.

Mom taught me to respect the religious figure, Dad taught me that taking life too serious is detrimental to your health. What can I say. . .