So, I come from a family of farters. Yes, people in my family fart, break wind, pass gas, boofah — you name it (as it relates to farting, and they’ve done it). And for as much as my parents have chastised my brother and I for it, we always laugh, because it’s always funny. Farting is funny — I admit it. Over the course of my 30 years, we’ve run through the gamut of variations on “Pull My Finger” and the ever popular “It was the dog” or “Whoever smelt it, dealt it” defenses. Trying to pin the offense on someone else is the oft-employed defense, and no one is immune, not even infants.
Case in point, my mom left me with my grandmother one day when I was a a few months old. Gram was getting her Jane Fonda on while I was cooling out in my ExerSaucer or some such. My mom came back in to get me while Gram was getting ready to do some bicycle kicks. Long story short, when Gram’s legs went up, the fart came out, and the first thing she said was, “Oh my! The baby must have gas!” Gee, thanks, Gram.
That being said, it shouldn’t come as any surprise to me that my own, dear sweet Mo and Co would be anything less than gas-tastic when it comes to cutting the cheese. And yet, I am stunned at the volume (i.e. loudness) and duration of these bottom blasts!
Yesterday at breakfast, for example, Co was puckering up her face for what I assumed was her morning constitutional. And I asked her, “Are you doing a poo-poo?” to which she replied, “Poooooo. . .. Pooooo” her hands gripping the sides of her hair chair as she gained leverage for what was to come. I keep telling her if she would eat the vegetables I give her instead of pushing them around, she wouldn’t have this problem, but hey, I’m just the mom. What do I know?
So Co is working out her digestive issues as I gently implore Mo (for the 10th time) to please eat her breakfast, when a a fart of adult proportions shakes the table, upturns two cups of milk and lifts Co at least four inches out of her seat. I swear, I thought my father was in the house, hiding in the hallway about to leap out with a “Gotcha!” and a smile. It was all I could do to hold in my laughter and give her a quick, “What do you say?!”
“Coose me!” she smiles.
And the boofahs keep coming! Somehow Mo got it in her head that gas from your body actually propels you forward. She started walking around the house saying, “You boofah (pbbbbbttt!) and then go like this (ssssssssstttt)!” Well, I’ll let you see what she means (turn up your speakers).
Being the big child that I am, farting plus a child simulating fart-induced jet propulsion never gets old.
Today, Co, Mo and I were wrapping up lunch, talking about our afternoon plans, when Mo breaks wind with both hands. “Morgan!” I said, turning to her with wide eyes.
“I know, Mom.” she said. “That scared me, too!”
I’m still laughing. . .
