go and grab your vag

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On Wednesday nights, the kids go to Royal Rangers, which is kind of like the faith-based version of Boy Scouts.  It’s a really cute program . . . they work on different character traits each week, and then they can earn a badge that can be sewn onto their vest.  Or, if your mom is really busy lazy, that badge can be stapled on to the vest, because, seriously, who has time to sew?

India loves Royal Rangers, but she confuses the vest and the badge, and a few weeks ago she was frantically searching the house for her vest, yelling,  “My vag!  I can’t find my vag!”  (Rhymes with badge?)  Which, of course, I only encouraged by calling it that, too.  About twenty times.  As Mark and I tried to stifle our junior-high giggling. 

Now all of the kids call it their vag.

ME: Kids, it’s time for Royal Rangers.

KIDS: Let me go grab my vag!

I’m guessing the troop leaders may not appreciate it.  But we are cracking ourselves up over here.


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