My son has become completely obsessed with the glorious sound of flatulence leaving his tiny little asshole. I'm beginning to think it's a male rite of passage - a tradition passed down from our forefathers.
They signed the Declaration of Independence, they freed the slaves, and they taught their sons the virtues of good farting.
Don't get me wrong. I've giggled at sound of an ass trumpet bouncing off our wooden kitchen chairs or cutting through a strong wind like an air horn.
And unfortunately, I've been rendered helpless at the hands of a carefully timed SBD (Silent But Deadly).
Hell, we've all been there. According to Dr. Oz we're there about 15 times a day.
Or more if you're a genius.
Didn't Einstein have gastrointestinal issues?
Damn 30 Day Shred.
But farting around these parts has always been a passing fancy (heh).
Until we had a boy.
Now life is his farting karaoke stage and we're the poor victims sitting the audience, not drunk enough to just pump our fists and raise our lighters in support.
Okay, wait. No raising lighters. But still.
He warns us of their impending arrival and expects us to stand or at least stop what we're doing and admire his handy work.
"Me fartin'," he'll tell us.
As if it wasn't completely obvious.
I suppose we should be proud that he owns his farts, unlike my daughter who still tries to pawn them off on someone else, pretend that they never happened, or worse, make it seem like I'm crazy.
"A fart? Where? You must be smelling things, Mom."
But Drew. Not him.
He proudly accepts the honor of a good fart. Or as we call it in our house, "gift that keeps on giving."
Sort of takes the "speak your truth and own the consquences" thing to a whole new level, huh?