Rootin’ Tootin’ Good Time
Our youngest son, Private Three, as I type, is making farting sounds. Oh. Not just with his mouth. Or by sticking his hand under his arm. Or by blowing on some part of his arm or leg. He has a straw. From his mouth, down towards and turned up under his arm. And he is blowing. Loud sounds. Long, drawn out, have a stomach problem sort of sounds. And where did he learn this little bit of boy culture? Yep. Private One, our oldest son.
This bit of advance toot noise making is something Private One is quite proud of. And something he teaches most of his friends, if he find them fart-sound-worthy. And I, their mother, just observe, aghast, amazed, and trying not to laugh. That’s my job, right? The mom who says stop that. That’s rude. No, not at the table. Right now, that’s enough. Their sweet sister sits between them, working intricate handwriting in a new scrapbook, shaking her head in befuddlement. Why must they go on like this, she seems to say to me telepathically. And now, Private Three is playing the underarm toot-a-phone to a song from the movie Spirit. One of those nauseating Brian Adams tunes, something about getting off of his back, and into his dreams. Or something. And now, our daughter, Private Two, is commenting on how only boys think this is funny. With disdain, she eyes her brother.
And while I really agree, it is just odd, even disgusting. I mean, who really wants to recall the sounds of a very bad stomach bug? I can’t help but laugh. Because the boys think it is soooo funny. And their sheer enjoyment makes me laugh. And that’s my job, too.
