My day started with multitasking, somehow it ended with farts. I grew up not using that choice phrase for the natural act of passing air laden with organic molecules capable of clearing a room. We “passed gas” in my childhood home, preferably not in the presence of others. Hmmmm…clarification needed—my mother and I were dainty about this process. My dad and brothers…not so much.
I’m pretty sure my mother banned the word fart, just as it’s probably my doing we don’t say it at our house. Again, clarification needed—it’s not said in my presence…give me credit for being a realist.
My sons are actually quite relaxed about the fact that gas happens. They grin, say excuse me, if I’m around, and carry on with life. My daughter, on the other hand, is a liberated gas releaser, not caring who hears or suffers the smell. I admit it, she makes me laugh, even as I tell her to behave with dignity. My only hope? That passing gas will slow down the dating process in high school.
This morning, she and I were multitasking before work and school. I was cutting out letter K’s and trying to wake up, she was watching TV and playing her DS. Obviously, her brain is more complex than mine.
At least, that’s what I thought until this evening. She showed me a U-tube video of two dinosaurs and a pig trying to outdo each other passing gas. Ok, so it was funny, but she watched it over and over, laughing hysterically. Of course, the title incorporated the word fart—more hysterical laughter.
I think I’m out of my realm regarding modern, elementary-school girls. I’m glad they’re comfortable with their bodies, but when my car takes on an unbearable odor or they’re burping songs in the back seat, I think Victorians had the right idea… I knew I should have skipped soccer and enrolled my daughter in cotillion classes. Live and learn…sigh…