For NuNu: The Butt-Checker of Barnard Way
So, I was speaking to my friend, R, on the phone this weekend. She informs me that her youngest brother, NuNu, is disappointed that I haven’t featured him as a character in this blog yet. So I am to believe that NuNu, the boy that grew up to become an investment banker–which is like, so perfect I cannot even tell you–spends his time these days driving around the metropolis in which he lives in a big fancy Mercedes, womanizing, and–cruising mommyblogs in his free time at work? What? Seriously, NuNu? Are the markets THAT bad?
Be careful what you wish for, my boy.
R and I grew up together on the same street in a coastal town that, as Morrissey puts it, they forgot to bomb. I spent a good deal of time Chez R, especially after school, and in some ways became a part of her family. So when we were about 10, and R’s mom got pregnant, this was a big deal for me as well. I remember R explaining it to me in this way:
R: You know the jelly they use, to make you not have a baby?
A: [dumbfounded] Uh, yeah, sure!
R: Well, it just didn’t work this time or something.
R: So my mom’s having a baby.
A: So are you going to babysit?
R: I guess.
And that was about it. Looking back, I probably should have more of a remembrance of NuNu’s time inside the womb, but the only other part that I remember is when R’s mom had to go have what must have been an amnio, since she was 35. And that is really funny to me, because at the time it was like, “Oh, she’s so old, she has to have a test to make sure the baby is . . . you know . . . okay.”
And I just turned 35 last week. So I guess my ten-year-old self is looking at me right now, and thinking, “Man, you are SO OLD.”
But back to NuNu. I should tell you that, after NuNu was born, the world was not merely blessed with another toddler permanently dressed in red rainboots and underoos. Oh, no, NuNu was special.
Now, NuNu had always shown a particular propensity for, uh, the more sensual aspects of life. Even as a young child, he was peculiarly taken with his sisters’ underthings. Since he was a latency period child at the time, I have to assume this was nonsexual–but nevertheless he would take R’s underwear and hide it–all of it, usually–inside of the desk in his room, or under his pillows.
He also developed an early adaptation of what would become the “I’m Too Sexy” dance popularized by Right Said Fred in the early 1990s. As a toddler.
At the time, we liked to attribute this . . . precociousness . . . to the fact that NuNu had significantly older siblings. But R and, more to the point, R’s middle brother, had never displayed this kind of behavior or anything like it. There really wasn’t an explanation, in fact, until the Dr. Bosse incident.
The Doctor Bosse Incident
Sometime in middle school, I think it was, R woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in her side. R’s mother rushed her to see a doctor in the middle of the night, and had to take NuNu along with her. NuNu’s age was probably not more than 3, although the exact timeline escapes me here.
Now, I wasn’t there in the examining room, but from what I understand things went a little something like this:
R gets examined by Dr. Bosse.
They determine that a rectal exam is in order (????).
NuNu and R’s mom are in the room, naturally, since R is a minor.
Dr. Bosse performs rectal exam.
NuNu’s eyes widen.
R’s mom suggests a different course of action.
NuNu’s eyes stay widened.
Somebody, somewhere determines that it is R’s appendix, and not her anal cavity, that should be examined.
NuNu’s eyes are still widened.
R’s mom rushes R to the hospital, where her appendix is removed.
NuNu continues to think about what he has just seen.
R calls me the next morning and I go to visit her in the hospital.
NuNu, forever altered (however slightly) embarks upon a new way of life.
I have to assume this is what happened, or something like it, because forever after R’s surgery, when I arrived at ChezR, I would be greeted by NuNu’s fingers up my ass and the following chant, in a sing-songy, toddler voice:
Me DOCTAH BOSS! ME PUM CHECKA YOR BUTT!!”
And so it was that I developed the lifelong tendency to guard my butt around NuNu. Now, I don’t want to make any generalizations here, but perhaps if you find yourself in the company of investment bankers, you should heed the Dr. Bosse warning as well. You never know when those guys might decide it’s time to come check your butt.