The official grades haven’t been posted, but suffice it to say that when I wrote my answer on the blank space numbered 130, I was effectively finishing up my A&P II experience. Yes, good people, who have slogged through this education experience vicariously with me, the semester is over. I crushed my lecture test such that I am exempt from the final exam. Yes, I am THAT kid in your class. The one who complains about how nervous they are about the test, how worried they are that they failed, and consistently scores grades that throw the curve totally out of whack. I am that kid and I am laughing all the way to a 4.0 —mmmmwhahahahahahah!!

Lemme tell ya, I had my lecture test in the morning and our last chapters were on the reproductive system and pregnancy. I have never said or heard the words penis and vagina used so much in a two week period. Ahahahah — period! Yes, I am a big ol‘ child when it comes to talking about penises and vajay-jay’s, but Christy actually gave a blog tutorial on it! A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

I have to admit, I will miss it. The class, the teacher, the random tidbits of information spewed forth by my classmates. I know who has had their ovaries removed, whose boyfriend sweats. . .a lot. . .at night. . ., whose grandmother has had every ailment known to man and taken every known medication to fight it, who has a friend with Kleinfelter’s Syndrome, and who looks like they have Kleinfelter’s Syndrome. Ahhh, it’s been a good run.

So, here’s to the summer which I plan to spend doing a whole lot of nothing –especially as it relates to anatomy and phys. Of course, since I am that kid chances are, I’ll have already bought my textbooks for the fall by 4th of July. Mmmmm. . .new textbooks. . . .

I think these happy faces say it all — we have officially overdosed on all things Easter. It’s taken me until just now to fully come out of my Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg induced coma to string a series of semi-coherent words together. I fully believe that the purpose of holidays is to have an excuse to eat all things junk all day long.

Our Easter activities started last week with a neighborhood Easter Egg hunt organized by a thoughtful neighbor across the street. Probably about 20 kids converged on this family’s side lawn and proceeded to tromp, trample, and trounce through her landscaping to scoop up dozens of psychedelic colored eggs. This was Co’s first hunt and Mo, being the dutiful big sister that she is, left her in the dust to score as much candy as her three year old self could. Once Co figured out that eggs = candy, she was tearing up flower beds and overturning shrubs. Neither she nor Mo had a real thought out plan as to gather the eggs; it was a true free-for-all.

The following Saturday was our church sponsored Easter Egg hunt, which I helped to set up. DH brought the girls and at the appointed hour, they, along with what could have easily been 100 other kids, wrought havoc on the grounds all in order to pick up the 1700 (yes, 1-7-0-0) eggs. Evidently, DH had prepped Mo and Co on strategy this time around. Instead of staying with the pack when the “go” was given, he advised them to move to the flanks, effectively decimating the perimeter and then securing the back end of the area. So in essence, while the masses were log-jammed at the starting point, our girls could pick and pluck their way to Easter Egg overload.

Remember the opening scene from Saving Private Ryan, when the doors to the boat open and the troops storm the beach? Yeah, it was a lot like that.

Saturday afternoon, I took Mo to see Alice in Wonderland at the Sandler Center with some friends of ours. She has not seen the Disney movie, so the White Rabbit became the Easter Bunny, followed by incessant questioning as to why he had a watch instead of a basket. Oy! When we got home, the mailman dropped off a ginormous box from DH’s parents that was chock full of Easter Eggs, candy, chicken shaped whistle necklaces and assorted seasonal tchotchkes.

Sunday morning dawned bright and early and I was able to stave off the Easter baskets for a while with the promise of wearing their new Easter dresses. Trying to get a decent photo of the two of them. . .looking in the same direction. . .without the baskets. . .pretty much impossible.
After church, we had dinner at my parents house, which yielded yet another set of baskets, more chocolates, more jelly beans. Just more, more, more. Co’s fine motor skills haven’t developed enough yet that she can peel the paper off of a tootsie roll, so she was content to eat it through the paper. Mo, on the other hand, left a trail of wrappers in her wake as she sampled from the three baskets at her disposal. My brother also came down for the holiday, which just added to the pandemonium as Uncle Christopher likes to tickle, tackle, and toss in the air.

Throughout it all, I have done my best to impart the true reason for the celebration of Easter, though trying to make death and resurrection more comprehensible for a toddler is a challenge. And of course, tying that together with bunnies, eggs, and Peeps. . .well, I think I could explain the glycolysis, the Krebs Cycle, and the electron transport chain in less time (yes, it always comes back to A&P).

Top off the week with a visit from Max from Max and Ruby at the library and my girls are practically begging me for a respite from all things rabbits. Well, maybe that’s just my wishful thinking. Perhaps I need a peanut butter egg to sort it out. . .

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. . .