Your son was sent home with a painting that he did in art class that you have to sign to prove that you looked at it. It’s a painting of an omelet on a plate with curly little hairs sprouting all over it. It’s title, PUBE OMELET, is written along the bottom of the painting with little flames rising from the letters. The plate holding the pube omelet also holds some potatoes and a little sprig of parsley. To be honest, were it not for the pubes, it would look like a painting of a really delicious breakfast.
“What else is in the omelet,” you ask your son.
"Broccoli,” he says. And he points to the little spots of green. “And mushrooms.”
You point to a speck of gray in the omelet and he nods.
“And is the white stuff Swiss cheese?” you ask. He corrects you. It’s Manchego.
“It looks scrumptious,” you say. “Except for the pubes.”
Your son looks down at the ground. You lift his chin up and you tell him that everyone gets preoccupied when their bodies start to change, or are late in changing.
“But one day you’ll be a man,” you’ll say. “Soon even. And you won’t have to dream about eating pubes or feeding other people pubes because they’ll be all over your genitals.”
Your son beams up at you and asks if you can enroll him in a cooking school. You do.
“Go easy on the pubes,” you say with a smile. He nods obediently. You’re pretty sure he won’t try to put any pubes in his food at cooking school. But to be certain, you and your husband will make a point of rinsing the soap after every shower (your son tends to linger outside the bathroom while you’re showering. Sometimes he's holding a plastic baggie).
Happy Pube Omelet Day!
