Atticus loves pockets. I've spoken of this before at length.
I'm pretty good about remembering to empty those little toy/food/bug holders before throwing his clothes in the washer- unless he's been wearing cargo shorts, which have become the bane of my existence, what with each pair sporting at least six pockets each. I also try and pat him down before we leave anyone else's house, because if I don't, I'll usually find a domino or screwdriver in there that he then has to return to its owner, along with an apology.
Yesterday, I was standing in the kitchen, washing some dishes. Atticus was running through the house, naked except for a pair of car-emblazoned underwear. I wish I could tell you that this is an unusual scene to stumble upon in our house, but it's not.
As he prepared to make another lap through the kitchen, our son came skidding to a halt behind me, and asked, "Hey, Mom, wanna see what's in my pocket?"
I turned around, inspected his outfit (or lack thereof), and stated, "You don't have any pockets, Bud."
"Yes, I do," he insisted.
I decided against pressing my point, and gave in. "Okay. What's in your pocket?"
He then reached into the front of his underwear and pulled out a plastic practice golf ball, a small car, and another little toy. He displayed them with an air of delight.
Can I just tell you how hard it was not to burst into hysterical laughter right then? I knew that to do so would be folly, however; he would decide this was a funny trick and start trotting it out at random times, like when we have company over.
Knowing this, I worked hard to school my face into a reasonable facsimile of one showing a stern expression. I'm pretty sure I failed miserably; Atticus cocked his head and squinted at me as I fought a losing battle to tamp down my hysterics. I used facial muscles I didn't know existed, and although I didn't have a mirror handy, from the feel of it, I probably looked more like I had bitten into the world's sourest lemon than like a normal mother doling out precious wisdom.
Eventually I managed to say (in a trembling, I'm-coughing-not-laughing voice), "Bud, that's not a pocket."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is! See, it has a little flap here-"
"Bud! It's not a pocket, okay? Please don't put things in there."
I admit with absolutely no shame that I completely gave up and passed the buck.
"That's a question for your Daddy."