I’m living with boys. This shouldn’t be such a revelation, I know. I’ve been living with boys for awhile. I think I’ve been so focused on the only other girl in the house, how she was developing and progressing and trying to mix in some pink, that I missed an important transformation, though. It’s as if a light switch flicked on when I may not have been paying close enough attention. Because where I once had floppy-mopped kids that happened to enjoy some rough and tumble, I now have boys.
My 6 year old has learned the fine art of bathroom humor. He burps, he farts. He has what he has dubbed pee-pee contests. Flashing one’s behind is hilarious. I’ve caught him trying to smear a booger on the wall. His fingernails are always filthy. He’s messy and loud and missing another tooth and ripping the knees out of his pants and his feet stink.
The other day, Jedi passed gas at the dinner table. I told him not to do that again, it was rude and we have manners. So when we were finished eating, he walked over to where I sat on the couch and tooted, twice. Boys are not known for subtlety.
“Did you just fart?”, I asked him.
After uproarious amusement on his end, he settled down enough to say, “No, it wasn’t me! That was Abby!”. He’s also acquired the skill of passing on blame to his younger siblings, though his laughter still gives him away.