It was during our lazy, washed out Saturday that I may have altered the course of my son’s future. I wish I could say it was through a word of my own wisdom, a portion of Scripture, or a great piece of advice I’d clung to since childhood. Unfortunately, I cannot.
It was rather through a rash outpouring of words so ridiculous I thought surely not even an eight year-old could mistake my fable for truth. Concerned as any responsible mother would be, I chided my cross-eyed children for being “couch potatoes”.
“What’s a couch potato?” …such a simple question.
The mere fact that a scrambled half-witted response flew from lips without reserve frightens me. The waters are so murky in the depths of my mind.
“A couch potato is someone who’s sat around watching TV for so long that roots start to grow from his bottom and they wrap themselves around the couch. The only cure is surgery.”
A more stupid explanation I doubt exists; however, my son epitomizes gullible.
His concern over “butt roots” (as we now refer to them) increased throughout the day. He became fearful reading would have the same planting effect.
Like a good mother I assured him butt roots were linked to excessive visual stimulation (for example, watching too much television).
I’m still amazed by how little TV he’s watched since. If only my twisted brain could have conjured such nonsense years earlier.
My only fear is a call from his teacher asking me to explain butt roots. Surely I’ll have to come up with a more scientific answer than I gave my son.