I was going to write about my current state of feeling like crapedness (made that one up), but, in the end, what difference does that really make? My stomach turns, the world goes on. Farts, on the other hand….

My son, secret government name Freddy, is  obsessed with farting. I really don’t understand it……well, my mommy brain doesn’t understand it. The kid part of me that’s left over, that part totally gets it. You know what I mean. That’s the part of me that, as a child, would PRAY for gas (for other people, of course) on Sunday mornings, as it is especially offensive launched off a bare, cold, wooden pew. The giggles and snorts that followed were better than Duck Hunt on Atari. It was like getting a Christmas present in the middle of the day, with no ribbons or paper to contend with. I certainly never farted myself, as that would be none too lady like, but oh, the joy of a fart slipped out by some poor embarrassed soul at a most unfortunate and awkward moment. Okay, so I totally see where he gets it. It’s just, well, he told me last night, as we were all crowded in my bed, mixing sick germs and telling stories about Iron Hook Man (popular guy with jewels in his hook for an arm hero from my imagination), that he farts in class. IN CLASS! He’s in first grade. That’s sooooooo gross and NOT okay. I prodded. He gave up several tidbits, including the fact that he’s not loud, he doesn’t announce it, he’s not stinky, and no one calls him names. He also found it necessary at this point to insert the fact he has a girlfriend. They both like turtles and frogs, and she, too, is a farter. Great.