The Wildebeest

Will is obsessed with dinosaurs the way Tiger Woods chases hookers.

We bought him a tub filled with dinosaurs and other creatures of all sizes. His favorite is the Brachiosaurus, probably because it’s the largest and the coolest looking. But surprisingly, out of all the T-Rexes, stegosauruses, triceratops and anklosauruses, his second most prized possession is a piddly little wildebeest.

It’s like an inch long and fairly unimpressive. But Will needed to know what each and every animal was called, and when I said “wildebeest” his eyes lit up for some reason. Maybe it’s just a fun name to say. Or maybe because he thinks they share the same first name. WILL-debeest. Who knows. The point is, he fucking loves this thing and needs it with him at all times.

I was in the other room getting dressed this morning when I heard giggling coming from the living room. I called out to Will and asked him what was so funny, but was greeted with more kid-cackling.

“What’s up buddy?” I asked, walking around the corner.

And that’s when I saw him — hands down his pants — looking intently down said pants and grasping onto something fairly hard.

“Dada. I’m playing with wildebeest in my pants!”

There it is. Just when you think the world is fresh out of cool euphemisms for penis, a 2.5-year-old inadvertently says “Check out my wildebeest!” while darting his hands down his pants.

I can’t wait to ask MJ if she wants to “tame my wildebeest” tonight.