Being a boy, it was inevitable that he would decide certain things are hilarious. Like bodily functions. Yep. He’s decided that gas and other assorted emissions are the funniest things in the universe.
He has developed a talent for burps on demand. Much as my countless younger brothers before him have done (yes, I have lost count of my many siblings), he can discharge a string of belches for minutes on end. And does so. To his own and no one else’s amusement.
He has developed a sense of humor about burping. After one spectacularly loud expulsion, I yelled, “What do you say?” He responded with, “There you go!”
Yes, here we go. Someone help me.
If belching is funny, then farting is hysterical. No one can pass gas in this house without Kiddo falling over laughing now. After a certain hour, I can gauge how well dinner is sitting on Hubby’s stomach and how long I should wait to join my family just by the decibel level of guffaws coming from the den. From both of them. I have learned men do not outgrow this homegrown source of personal joy.
It’s not just the act that makes for great comedy in the Jock household. The mere word is the height of wit. Just the other night, I tucked Kiddo into bed with the usual kiss and a heartfelt, “I love you.”
In return I got the giggled, “Fartfartfartfartfartfartfart.”
Well, it had to happen. The XY chromosome will not be denied when it comes to a boy being a boy. I guess I should be grateful that Kiddo is fiercely typical for his age in many respects. I remind myself of that each time he snuggles in my lap, gives me his angelic smile, and says, “Fart on your leg?”
With my own angelic smile, I say, “No, go fart on Daddy’s leg.” And he obeys.
That’s my boy.