It was one of those beautiful mornings. The whole family was lying in bed together. Even the cat was curled up with us, yet to be tortured by our 21 month old today. It was the kind of morning when you wish there were a professional photographer hovered over the scene snapping black and whites of the family.
And suddenly from out of nowhere, my husband lets out a very unsilent but deadly fart.
He looks around guiltlessly. “Is there a duck in here?” he asks my daughter who proceeds to search around the bed for the duck. “Where is it?” they ask each other.
Oh great, here I am trying to teach her to be a little lady, to say things like please and thank you and excuse me, while he’s trying to cut the cheese as loudly as possible so he can pass it off as a wild animal. But this makes me wonder. Am I turning her into a cheerleading, Barbie carrying, pink-obsessed girlie girl? And is he turning her into a cool, hang-out-with-the-guys kind of gal?
Hmmm, I’ve spent my whole life learning how to pass gas so quietly it won’t register on the richter scale, but suddenly I’m searching the internet for advice on how to make my farts sound more like farm animals. I figure if I can master a goat sound, I can win parent of the year. This whole motherhood thing is turning out to be a little bit different than I envisioned.