Marble

As I prepared the Boy's bath the other night he sat naked on the floor, waiting for the tub to fill. He was quiet, anticipatory. Suddenly, in a panic, he announced, "I can't find my marble."
"What marble," I asked.
"My marble. I can't find it."
"I didn't know you had a marble," I offered, surprised. Small, easily swallowed objects are not generally permitted in a home with a three year old and a one year old.
"Yeah, I have a marble, but I can't find it. Do you have a marble?"
"No," I answered, "Daddy lost his marbles long ago." (Years from now, Boy, you'll laugh and laugh)
"Does Mommy have a marble?"
"No, I don't think she does, either."
"Yeah she does. She told me."
"Ok, if she said so."

He was quiet again. Then, looking over his shoulder at his backside, and using his hand to pull at the cheeks of his ass, he said, "I really have to find my marble. It mystappeared."

The first thought through my head at that point was that, indeed, a small object had been easily swallowed, and its less than glorious return was imminent.

"Boy," I said, in a panic that now superceded his, "What are you talking about?" I wrestled him up from his seating position and, as he looked on over that shoulder, I delicately examined the potential exit point.

"There it is," he exclaimed. He pointed excitedly to the small, round, birthmark on his right ass cheek. "There my marble!"

I sighed. "That isn't a marble, Boy. It's called a mole. A mole - not a marble."

"Oh. Yeah, we find my mole. Thank you, Daddy."