At Home With The Family Of Morons

We didn't have school today. Which meant my boys honored their unspoken pact to drive me crazy. It started with a sound. A sound much like I heard last week, when I thought #1 son was launching a rocket in the front yard, but it turned out that he was sitting on the toilet. Ahem. That kind of sound.

It was so reminiscent of last week's gas-passing that my #2 son, safely ensconced at his computer playing Civilization 3, just an arm's lenth away from me, said matter-of-factly, "#1 has launched another rocket." Which has become our little euphemism for a fart. A loud, long, echoing fart.

This was the pick of the litter as farts go. I was sure the boy was flying around the room like a rapidly-deflating balloon. I hollered from my office, "What are you DOING?" He laughed an evil laugh. The next thing I knew, he was standing right behind me. And I heard it again. The rocketish rumble, and the evil laugh. I told him he was nasty, and to get away from me and stop it NOW, right now, this instant, or I was taking away his Lappy for the rest of the day. He continued to laugh. I get sooo much respect from my young 'uns.

Then the boy spilt his little secret. "Mom. I was not really farting. Look. I have this straw down my sleeve, and I blow in it, and it makes my armpit sound like a fart. Listen. BRAAAAPPPPP! See? And it's not really a fart, just air in my armpit. Then you lean down like you're tying your shoe, and you hide the straw like this. I learned that at school yesterday when The Boy Who Was Born In A Truck did it with a piece of inkpen to Ms Homeroom Teacher. We all thought it was a fart. The kids laughed, and she told him to STOP IT. Then he showed us how to do it. Isn't it cool?" He grinned, like a kid who had just invented a robot capable of completing 6th grade homework.

He practiced his newly-acquired skill for the rest of the morning. I mean from 10:30 until 12:30. I called both boys up to the kitchen for lunch. As I put the finishing touches on #1's sandwich, #2 finished his Circus Os and milk (the Save-A-Lot version of Froot Loops), and began to taunt #1 and his fart straw. "Moooo oooom! #2 won't let go of the end of my fart straw! It's plugged up! I can't fart! Make him stop it. NOW!" #2 giggled his fiendish giggle, fueled by the sugary Circus Os. I had had enough. "STOP PLUGGING YOUR BROTHER'S FART HOLE!"

Both boys stopped their scuffling and looked at me. #1 said, "I bet that's something you never thought you'd be saying to your kids, huh, Mom?" I agreed. "And I never thought that one of my kids would be telling me that the other kid "...has a butt hole", either," I told them. #2 remembered his little butt hole faux pas from December. "What I meant was...he had a butt hole, in his pants!" Yeah. Like that makes it better.

I suppose you mothers of daughters are putting the finishing touches on the Easter bonnets right about now. Perhaps sitting down to a tea party, or playing My Little Pony, or having a Barbie furniture and clothing auction like my sister-the-mayor's-wife used to do with her girl young 'un. Shed a little tear for us mothers of boys. One single tear will do. A tear that runs down one cheek, and then your little princess pats you on the shoulder and wipes it away with a Kleenex and compassion.

Please. A single tear.

And while I'm making demands, go to writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com and read some stories. Place a vote. Because I said so. Don't make me plug your fart hole!