Captain Me Planet

I’ve been affirmed! Mommy Brain reports this today…

“Sexually charged music, magazines, TV and movies push youngsters into intercourse at an earlier age, perhaps by acting as kind of virtual peer that tells them everyone else is doing it, a study said Monday.”

D’oh!

And links up to the article from which the quote originated. I’ve soooo been saying this. Thanks Mommy Brain.

The fart machine that has taken residence in our home (thanks Dad) is completely unnecessary. Between 3 boys (1 man in there, debatable), and 1 uninhibited girl, we have plenty of these, for real, with noxious fumes, to experience. I, of course, do not “pass gas”. I am a “southern gal”, who, thanks to my southern Mama, has been taught ultimate sphincter control. Some would say it is healthy to let it go, I say, tighten those muscles. No need to let it rip, if you can reabsorb, up to the esophagus if necessary. It may even help your abs.

Our youngest loves to leave his mark in any room he’s been in. He’s downright proud. The room takes on something foul that would scare man or beast. Try as we might, he insists on giggling, and announcing after the fact, when we’re wilting. He will not slip out of the room to save our nose hairs. It seems to be one of his strengths, his farts, but I’m not sure how to channel this in his education.

Our middle child, a girl, let’s’em go with no reserve. She won’t even wear panties if I don’t make her, even in a dress. If someone starts to faint, she shyly admits, and apologizes. At least that.

Our oldest. He’s entered the wild world of denial. It is never his fault. He’s not picking his nose, he’s scratching it. That rankness? Must be the dog. That stanky foot smell coming from his room? Has to be his little brother’s sandals. And, he doesn’t need a shower more than every 10 days, as apparently, he does not sweat. Therefore, he can wear that shirt for 4 days running. My mother-in-law warned me about this. Sure, she said at his birth, he’s so sweet now. But one day, that little head will stink. Not my baby, I thought, smothering his downy head in kisses. But dammit, he does. Sour, damp, moldy even. And he’s perfectly content to wallow in it.

So back to farting. I think my father gets perverse pleasure out of this. This insipid little machine has been hidden in my cabinets, behind my head, under the sofa cushion, in the laundry, the dishwasher, the dog food…and fought over, and over, and over. Seems everyone wants the priviledge of sounding off a fart. Something I don’t think I will ever understand. I mean, I have only recently admitted to actually ever having a bowel movement. My husband has thought I’d mastered the art of reabsorption. His favorite moment in our marriage was when I attempted to give birth to our daughter, and I pooed right there on the sheets. He could announce he knew, he knew, that I was human. I made poo. I acted like it never happened, and we didn’t discuss it for 5 years.

So anyway, after all this, I can only say again, thanks Dad. Our life is enriched in ways you cannot imagine. I’ll be hearing farts in my sleep, as well as the bickering to get the ability to make one. I know Mom is on my side. We’ll go down in sphincter-strength history. The last delusioned southern ladies on earth. I’m flexing right now.

(and Corndog, if you happen here, this is not a rip off, I’ve just gone undercover…ssshhhhh.)