No farts for the wicked

When the kids are jumping on their beds, pulling things out of drawers, chanting their little gleeful war chants, pretending to be cats and dragons, and telling us they need a third dinner, saying this is the only thing that works: “If you don’t get into your beds now, I won’t fart on you tonight.”

Yes, you read it right.

The latest fad in the three- to six-year-old demographic currently residing at our domicile is for Mommy, i.e., me, to make extremely loud extended raspberries on cheeks, foreheads and scalps. Then they are happy. And then they get into bed.

Why? I don’t know. (Personally, I have different tastes.) But if they like it and are willing to risk falling asleep for it, hell, I’ll do it until they go away to college.

The only danger is when I forget to do it. Two nights ago, I left rather abruptly so my husband could start reading to them, and The Younger was quietly weeping: “Mommy, you didn’t fart on me!”

So, I farted on him. And all was right with the world again.—Jillian O’Connor

 

 

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