Urban Dictionary: Drop Trou - to lower one's pants down to one's ankles, often in a sudden, impulsive manner, thus exposing one's nether regions.
We do a little song here when the kids drop trou. We stole it from my friend Dawn, who sings it to her daughter Cayti.
I see a hiney, it's nice and shiny. If you don't hide it, I'm gonna bite it.
We also added a second verse we wrote ourselves:
I see a tushy, it's nice and mushy. I see a booty, it is a cutie.
Both verses get immediate giggles, a cheery sing-along, or a grumpy "stop singing that!" depending on mood du jour.
We wondered if the kids would arrive with any modesty issues when they got here. We figured they probably wouldn't, being six and seven, but really didn't know what to expect for kids of that age, particularly Justuce, who was used to sharing her birthday suit with two moms and four sisters, not two dads.
Didn't faze her a bit. On their first sleepover, still transitioning - that in-between time where they adjust from foster home to permanent life - the kids decided they wanted to swim in the back yard pool. I barely said yes before we had two naked kids in the kitchen. Justuce covered her bare body with half-hearted bikini hands for about five seconds, then realizing that was just slowing her down on her way to wiggling into her Disney Princess one-piece, figured, screw it, in for a penny, in for a pound.
The kids aren't old enough to worry about who sees them naked yet, which is handy for quick costume changes here at home, but a real challenge at a public pool, where Justin will drop trou for God and Country in a heartbeat, onlookers be damned. Justuce is a bit more discreet, although she did get out of the pool at the athletic club the first time we took her there, announced she had to pee, and before we could point her to the ladies room, simply stood up next to the nearest chaise lounge and did it down her leg. No time like the present.
I've got a great picture of Justin in the shower, wearing his sister's shower cap. Justuce washes her hair every other night. On odd nights, she gets to cover it up to save on snarls and drying time. Justin got wind of that, and fair's fair, wanted to wear one himself. So, in the category of "photos that'll never make it to Facebook for fear of a Department of Family Services inquiry," there he is in all his glory, shower cap puffing off his head like a giant pink mushroom, smiling to beat the band and letting it all hang out with great enthusiasm. I texted it to my sister in Wisconsin and she said, "poor boy, I haven't even met him and I've already seen his junk." C'est la vie, kiddo, and welcome to Bonnie Castle Way. I'm going to love showing that to your prom date someday.
The most adventurous spotting of a hiney that's nice and shiny occurred last week at Bonnie Springs Old Nevada, the wild west town out past Red Rock. Justuce was having a leisurely pee in the old town saloon when along came a spider who sat down beside her, and before I knew it, there was a piercing scream, a scramble of limbs, and she shot out from under the stall like greased lightning. Didn't even open the door. Just scrambled out from underneath in two seconds flat, shorts around her ankles, fanny in the breeze and halfway down the hall before it occurred to her she was a bit underdressed for getting out of Dodge.
We're trying to condition them now to dress and undress away from each other, but it's harder than you'd think. They shared a bedroom in foster care these past few years, so changing in front of each other was all they grew up with. They goofed around, wrestled and played, clothed or unclothed, dressed or not. They took baths together. Got ready for bed together. All acceptable then, but not so much now.
Now it's one of our early jobs to remind them "privates are private," and what used to be perfectly fine in foster care, isn't allowed here. One of the rules of foster care in Clark County states that once a boy reaches 5 years old, he's required to have his own room, separate from his sister, or any other girls in the house. Clark County was a year late in making that happen, but here they are, and now it's our task to fix it. They do have separate bedrooms here, and that's where we patiently encourage them to change their clothes. There, or separate bathrooms.
Not an easy feat. Say "let's swim," and Justin has his pants around his ankles and his goods hanging out in half a heartbeat, whether his sister's on the viewing stand or not. Corraling him into the downstairs bathroom before the jewels start shining is an exercise in patience and repetition. Sharing a room with his sister for so many years, he came to us inclined to drop trou and wag his willy at her out of sheer, silly goofiness, and believe me, you don't want to tell THAT to your case worker, or you'll have two or three DFS experts climbing up your tree with a flashlight investigating your "alleged occurance of sexualized behavior." Welcome to the big leagues, folks, where even pure, harmless, little kid silliness is up for massive, legal interpretation.
Not surprisingly, our yucky, grown-up dad bodies don't get rave reviews. My first swim in the back yard with them drew an enormous "ewwww, that's disgusting!!" the first time Justuce realized I had armpit hair, and Justin was equally unimpressed with my manly physique, pointing at me with a horrified, drawn-out "ewwww, you got big boobs!" before bursting out in hysterical laughter.
Adam is required to put on a t-shirt in the morning or Justuce won't come near him. No longer is his hairy chest a thing of beauty.
And Justin, bless him, the first time we showered together in the men's locker room at the athletic club, took one look at me from the waist down and broke out into even louder hysterical laughter, screaming out to everyone within a three-mile radius, "Ha-ha-ha-ha! You got a big hairy pee-pee!" A little too loud, but thank you, son. I do what I can.
So, the next time you find your way to a swimming session with J1 or J2, be advised. You'll see a hiney, it's nice and shiny. If we don't hide it, you're gonna see it. Avert your eyes, my friends. Modesty doesn't live here anymore...but two cute little booties do.
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