Well, I was eating popcorn. He was smashing popcorn into the couch and smiling a lot. Smashing popcorn into the upholstery is really cool. Til Dad gets home and asks why that is being allowed to happen. For some reason he never likes my answer which is almost always, "Well, he was being really quiet."
Now I've learned to change it up a little bit. I'm currently cycling through a few different excuses like... I was having a seizure and blacked out. Or... my blood sugar was low and I nodded off. If I'm really desperate I use... Oh sorry, I didn't notice. For a really special time I'm saving... The alien light was in my eyes and I was freaking out. Or maybe... I ran out to meet the ice cream truck and it was like that when I got back. He might also possibly fall for... The DVR fast forward button stuck and I had to run to the kitchen for a butter knife. Telemarketer called? Avon? Jehovah's Witnesses? Child Protective Services was at the door?
But as the popcorn was being smashed an altercation was occurring on the TV screen. Two men struggled, flung themselves around the room, knocking pictures off the wall, falling over couches. Your basic fake TV fighting.
Tristan glances up at the TV and watches for a second. Then in perfect, clear English (not his usual Toddler-ese) he yells, "HIT HIS PENIS!"
Right at that moment I was wishing there was another adult in the house to administer the Heimlich maneuver on me. My sister-in-law said the directions for self-administering the Heimlich is in the front of her phone book. It's not in my phone book because I have a crummy Arkansas phone book and the people who make my phone book are either jerks who think Arkansas people can't read and follow directions or they are trying to figure out a way to legally kill rednecks south of the Mason-Dixon line.
However, despite the fact that my phone company is trying to kill me, I didn't die that night. I lived on to retell the story to my family at which time Julius proudly announced that he is the one who taught Tristan that if an intruder breaks into our house that the best self-defense method is to kick the intruder in the penis. Obviously, Tristan is a very good student.
Coincidentally, this is the same week the daycare lady hinted around to me that there was probably some overuse of the word "penis" in our household since Tristan felt perfectly comfortable discussing his penis at the snack table not once, but FOUR times. I thought she was being silly about it until this morning I hear him yelling, "GIANT PENIS" at a Batman cartoon.
My new plan is a re-education program wherein we rename the penis to something less alarming such as "supercalifradgalisticexpialidocious" because Tristan won't be able to say that until he's eight.