By Jamie Miles

Laughter from the backseat, a snickering so boisterous, it makes you all happy inside to be the mother of a four-year-old boy. Picking up children from school, especially boys, is a treat. Bounding into the car, they dissolve into a puddle of giggles about something bawdy. A sound or smell -- the louder, the longer -- all the better to torment female riders. My repulsed daughter transforms into the most proper seven-year-old. Mom’s correction to this Pre K bathroom humor only pours kerosene on their exuberance. The teasing boldly intensifies for enraging a girl adds to the fun.

Expecting civility from the backseat is a futile lifetime battle, for little boys turn into big boys masquerading as male adults. Big boys still find silly vulgarism’s hysterical, and if any females tormented, perfect!

Last weekend at the Cultural Clays fundraiser, a Steffen Thomas print of a woman was for silent auction. She wore the most spectacular hat, the most spectacular face and the most spectacular pair of… hmm. Seems this maiden forgot her top. Not that I am passing judgment. Haven't we all absent-mindedly trotted about Madison overlooking something -- an earring, a shoe or any stitch of clothing from the waist up?

A certain gentleman (I’ll call him Bob), decided this would be the perfect thing for (or way to embarrassingly torture) his wife. Bidding on the lovely painted lady, he signed his wife’s name. His mate thought this was a scream (or she screamed) adding to his merciless delight.

“What are people going to think if I win her,” gasped his red-faced spouse, who thankfully remembered her blouse that evening. I offered that the hat-wearing, shirt-forgetting gal, though maybe a little more free spirited than the average Madison woman, was charming. Any awkwardness on displaying her at home could be rectified by framing her with a large mat to be left in place till children reached maturity. Excluding the large child to whom she was married, who most probably would not reach this plateau.

Last night my son joyously burped, loudly and dramatically. “Joe, don’t do that,” I admonished. Very pleased with himself, he smiled, “I can’t help it. Besides, Jesus made burps.”

So, I counseled my friend about her Steffen Thomas beauty, “Really, your husband couldn’t help it. Besides, Jesus made (another plural B word).”

After a week of gas shortages, bad news from Wall Street, layoffs, hostile politics and store closings, a little silliness about boys being boys and loving to torment girls is a welcome thing.  And considering all the above, it certainly is more fun to write about.