In Defense of Farting

I walked out to find them bare- bummed with tan lines exposed throwing blueberries off the front porch. No adult aided the baby striptease, and that’s where the fun was had, for they felt no need to immediately cover all that they had just exposed. I paused in my own judgment, before I proceeded to interrupt the competitive contest emerging from a dinner with too much cheese for systems of their size and operation. The smallest went first, an impressive release, and her participation on its own fueled fun into the air; light and smelly.  The eldest brother followed confident in his skills, which failed to impress beyond himself, though he did not notice the surroundings of his own ego, declaring himself the winner before the contest’s end, so proud of the noise he produced. As the middle girl expelled much more gas than one would think could exist in a toddler, interrupting her brother’s naked victory dance, laughter erupted more furiously than her bowels to the point of comical hysteria full of clapping, jumping, and teething drool.

The adult mother in me faced the temptation of horror in the face of the sheer freedom in so much naked flatulence. Yet upon further reflection, I do believe, children understand the underlying philosophical truth of farting much better than the adult, full of restrictive thoughts and habits brought on by age and fear. For I have never met a baby so overcome with themselves that they fear the opinion of others at the expense of their own comfort.

The foremost defense of children in their farting behavior begins with an understanding of freedom and necessity. Since it is necessary, like happiness, and sex, and maybe religion, too, it is only logical to revel in its game with reckless abandon, complete and without guilt or shame as these are the destroyer of all that is good and healthy.

Yet logic is not needed to apprehend farting’s fun, nor should it be employed in excess in any matter at all, for children understand the lightness it produces, and the necessity of rejoicing in air of everyday life; smelly or not.

With natural competition as the driver, the flatulence, itself, tends to ease and erase the underlying sense and existence of the day’s sibling rivalry, as stripping down naked without apprehension or insecurity and engaging in behavior in which there is no shame yet discovered, is one of natures most hilarious opportunities to refuel and ignite the indissoluble bond between siblings.

Its interesting, too, that even in their freedom, there is a recognition of order, for farting is much more fun, when the rules of taking turns are acknowledged and respected.

Imagine adults in the heat of arguments expelling such pungent smells with such ferocious sounds and continuing to care at all about the silliness of their original argument. If heads of states passed gas instead of bills, I believe the economy would be in much better shape. Or if two married adults, fighting over finances or birth control, simply farted instead, would not there be any better reason to retire towards laughter?

The understanding is inherent in a child to engage fully in the freedom in their souls still detached from worries and insecurities. They so often succeed in such a feat through behaviors we adults no longer have the courage to employ, which is where the real shame is, all bundled up inside, afraid and tense, anxious and embarrassed.

The first difficult day was March 19, the feast of St. Joseph, followed by May 1^st, the other feast of St. Joseph, both days full of celebrations for Josie and her patron saint. On May 22^th, the day for little miss Rita, his patience was once again tested, a seemingly unending journey toward the feast days of his sisters with no sign of his own. “But, when is it MY feast day?” he would beg. July 25^th, we would remind, at least 6 times a day. “Will I get cake?” “Cake is for birthdays, but we will see…”

Breaking the news that his special day is actually shared with his dad, the original James, only caused a mild sense of Spencer Pratt’s “I want it all to myself.”

The morning began bright and early, Florida style, with all three kids in the bed singing, “Happy Feast day to James.” Josie’s tendency to repeat every single word spoken by James in a language unintelligible to all but James and me, caused borderline fist fights throughout most of the morning, because, as James clearly understands, it is not in fact Josie’s feast day. The good news for the parents is James eventually figured out that Josie would stop saying “its my feast day,” if he stopped saying “its my feast day,” incessantly and continuously, so it was a win, win.

The boys fished on the docks as the sun rose and James experienced his first sight of a snook “nursing” daddy’s finger. Apparently, snook latch onto a thumb and won’t let go of it in the water after being caught, a phenomena I’m perfectly fine with missing, and I’m further horrified that James explained it as “nursing.”

We swam and had cake and ate his favorite foods and talked about St. James, the fisherman, thanking God for all that is good, especially my main men/toddler.

To James on your feast day,

May your vigor be virtuous and your smile wide and sparkly. May you love God with all that you are confident that He loves you more.

To Jim on your feast day,

I’m sorry your son bossed you around all day and picked all of the meals and activities. Since I’m the one who wanted him named after you so badly, I’ll take the blame and make you a cake of your choosing some other day.

Happy Feast Day to you all. Also, happy halfway to Christmas, a fact, I deliberately avoided communicating to my small children, because 6 months of “is it Christmas yet,” is something I wont miss hearing.

Prompt: write about an untrue family story

The children were free to walk about, a teacher assigned to each group of ten. My sister’s golden brown curls, having been brushed that morning, stood frizzy and with happy attention. She and her friends chatted cheerfully, spunkily meandering from one portrait to the next, with their small eyes of wonder; big and inspired. It was their third grade field trip. The colors and strokes made by artists: the backdrop to holding a purse and standing with friends in an outfit of matching scrunchie to socks to stirrup stretch pants to body suit, planned weeks in advance for this very special occasion of long bus rides, packed lunches and free spirits.

The curator asked that they gather around, to study one painting in particular. He explained its importance to history and creativity and beauty and asked the crowd if anyone knew the name of the artist behind such a marvelous wonder. She stood on her toes, the girl with the curls, and in her red top, and side pony. She raised her hand straight up as high as could be, quietly chanting, “pick me, pick me, pick me!” He pointed his finger, calling on her, releasing the excitement pent in her pointed toe to her waving fingers.

“My mom did!” she exclaimed with enthusiasm and matter of fact!

The looks on their faces of confusion, brows burrowed and slight head shakes were not ones she detected.

“Your mom?” he said so as not to offend the spirit of a girl.

“YES!” she continued talking quite surely. “My mom! The real one is hanging at my house!”

Again, the adults chuckled, but, still, she did not notice as she shook her head again and again up and down excited and fast, her eyes wide of truth and intent to impress.

He went on to explain that it was Renoir, in fact, who painted that those two sisters on a terrace with hats full of flowers and gardens as their landscape. Yet, the innocence inside that sister of mine, stood convinced that the imposter hung on that wall of the museum, staring at her, with lies and betrayal offending her honor.

“She signed it an everything!” she continued to say, about the discount print hanging in the pretty golden frame on the wall in the living room next to the mirror and the staircase so everyone could see it, day after day, as they came in and out of her childhood home, with the signature of her mother scribbled down in the corner.

How much are apple slices? $10.

The tale of today’s impromptu and regrettable trip through the Wendy’s drive-thru begins ten years ago during my senior year of high school. As the lead minion to the Wicked Witch in the Kansas munchkin dreamland, I was dedicated to my role. Due to lack of athletic coordination and amateur rope technicians two years my junior, my left rotator cuff was torn in a flying trapeze catastrophe making the wearing of the bum squeezing harness in front of my peers much less worth it.

10 years, 3 babies, and 1 adult swim team with too much back stroke later, my shoulder popped out worse than my bum in the harness and aggravated pregnancy consequence #567: carpel tunnel. It’s all quite fine, and the kids think I’m cool with this brace, but it makes it hard to buckle car seats and balance babies. With work going on in my house today, we needed out, and Rita had a fever, so public places were a no, and no one likes to play with sick kids that are probably contagious. “Lets go for a drive! I have one good hand!” I said to them all and they put on their crocs. To the car wash we went, and only one kid did cry, so I’ll count it successful at half a dollar per minute of mild crying inducing distraction.

“I’m hungry!” James said, which was echoed by Josie without the G or the R. I thought back to my kitchen with workers still present and its lacking refrigerator contents. I began to consider the drive thru for the first time in my mom- career, so as to avoid unbuckling and rebuckling. Jim’s done it twice and they were huge French fry fans, but the health nut inside me has never allowed a solo trip to the red head or arches. I braved the first window searching for the healthiest option. Chicken wraps with apple slices as a side filled with hormones and other things I tried to ignore. Their confusion prompted questions like “what is this place?” and a “give back our money!” and “put up the window, I’m hot!” command.

I passed them the wraps, hoping to sit and watch the passing chooooo chooooo!!! And with one, tiny, singular bite of salty, saucy chicken not cooked by mom or without extra hormones sparked spitting and crying because “this is disgusting!!!!” and so also became the car with all the remnants of chicken mixed with slobber spread all over its floor. I took back the wraps and in the garbage they went, and that’s when I realized, I spent $10.97 for spit out chicken and two bags of apple slices. The French fries I did not buy could provide no comfort.

With one more surprise left in each bag, I thought “maybe the toys will win back the morning and occupy them while I vacuum the chewed chicken in the car. Oh wait, only one whale was given, it will be okay, maybe they can share.” The problem, however, is that if there is anything that does not come naturally to children, or maybe just mine, its communism.

And I typed this whole thing with only one hand.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nl_Qyk9DSUw