Tender Thoughts

Living with kids is much like reading a stream of consciousness novel, and I try to stimulate my brain by seeking meaning in the flow of verbal diarrhea. He likes to play with rhyming words, alliteration ("that frickin' frog is freakin' me out"), multiple meanings. It's a Jeopardy Potpourri category, Alex. And it's a humorous hiatus from the heinous havoc for now.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.