This story begins two days ago, in a compact car filled with cranky children. Naptime (O’ blessed naptime; the hymns, odes, and sonnets I dedicate to thee) was fast approaching and it was paramount that the baby be kept awake during the ride. If A. falls asleep in the car, even for a SECOND, he won’t nap — an almost unimaginable tragedy on Battlefield Babysitter. So I’m being a dork, singing, trying to get everyone to cheer up and participate. Nothing worked, and A. was nodding off. Desperation! Finally, J. pops up with this gem, “Auntie, A. farted and it’s STINKY back here!”
“Come on J.” I volleyed, “You farted and you’re just blaming it on A. The smeller’s the feller, you know!”
“No way, I DIDN’T FART.”
“Okay, dude, cool.”
“Sometimes my Daddy farts, though, Auntie.” SWEET! An opening! I moved deftly to exploit it.
“Wow, J. Do you know who the grand champion farter of all time is?”
“Yep, his farts sound like this,” and here I made a huge farting noise that is pretty much irreproducible in print. (Make your own very loud, very long farting sound and maybe you’ll get the idea).
“Wow, Auntie, that’s a big fart.”
“Yeah, J. and do you know how Grandma farts?”
“She LIFTS HER RIGHT LEG and lets out three or four little ones and then one that sounds like a whistle.”
“Yep, like this,” and then I made Rev ass noises (this was not my proudest moment).
“You mean like THIS, Auntie,” J. started making super loud fart sounds, but then (beneath his cacophony) I started hearing little wee “Pbbbfffftsss.”
“Now, you’re getting it J.! Is A. making noises, too?”
“Yeah, he’s mouth farting. “
“Awesome,” I said. I might not have been able to teach the kid to consistently ask for juice, but within just a few minutes I had successfully shown the baby how to fart orally. I ruled.
A few miles later, after we’d all been joyously sounding off for several minutes, J. said, “Okay, Auntie, I don’t want to talk about farts anymore.”
And A. said, “PBBBBBBFFFFFFT.”
I’m pretty sure the baby is a genius.