Monday, 28 January 2013

Boot Tootin'

Gracie approached me quietly, a gentle smirk on her face, and said, "Mummy, I got a song for you."

She turned, bent over and looked back over her left shoulder.


I can still taste it.

I have never known anyone who farts quite as much as Grace does. She can proudly lift her leg and release a boot toot on command. They are loud, brown and resonant. Not quite paint-peelers, but she is only 3. Sometimes she follows through, sometimes she leaves us with an empty promise. Either way, she has us crying with tears of laughter, laughter which is often met with an encore of the same calibre, and often with her partner-in-crime Lily trying her hardest at the body bagpipe. Lily's efforts alone have us in stitches. Her face contorts along with her body making her look like she is in extreme pain, all for a tiny, barely audible, pip.

Enter Ella. 

"You think that's good? How about this..."

Suddenly, it's not that funny anymore. I know it's not fair. We cacked ourselves at the Wondertwins producing fecal clouds, there's something not quite right when our dainty 11 year old daughter drops a smoofer. 

Baby Scarlett farts (and applauds herself with her new-found clapping) and we cheer and swoon, "Aaawwww, she's so cute! Fart again." But I can tell you there's nothing to swoon about when Tim or Campbell drop their guts in my presence.

When does farting become less funny? Was there a cut-off age that I missed? 

I remember a time when farting in the face of your brother sleeping was hilarious, but learning your son has farted in your daughter's face while she sleeps with her mouth open is a disgusting and punishable offence. 

Pre-Scarlett, we drove across Australia in a large black Dutch oven with four children. Sometime the air was thick, depending on what truck stop food they were fed. Every errant smell was blamed on Dad. This year, on our trip to Queensland, the blame fell on Baby Scarlett. 

Can't blame me. I don't fart. I'm a fucking lady. 

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