Rooty tooty fresh and frooty

You had to know it was coming.

I am the mom of three boys, well, four counting Dave...and yes, I count Dave. You knew the day would come when I would blog about toots. Yes, the gas they pass. Those boys of mine think that pooting is one of the funniest things on God's green earth. It is almost an art form in this house. Dave enjoys a good rip in the shower, you know with amplified sound and all, what with the wet cheeks and bathroom acoustics. But, by far, the best is when he farts while doing a karate kick. Gets the boys rolling every time. Now, we are into the whole walking by someone, sitting on them, and letting one fly. The boys think this is downright hysterical.

Then there is me. Little ol' me. The lone girl in the house...well, besides the cat, who, by the way, has some stank gas issues of her own! Phew. What do I do? Try to teach them gentle manners, and that toots are not funny? Uh, NO. Hellloooo...?! The good Lord knew what He was doing when he blessed me with all boys, because I can get down and dirty with the best of them. Now, are we fogging up the joint when we go out to dinner? No. But in the H household, if we had broccoli for dinner, oh, it is on like Donkey Kong. It is all about out-grossing the next man. Yeah, good times, these. Eh, it's cheap entertainment. Plus, who doesn't have fond memories of good old dad saying, "Hey! Come here! Hurry. Hey... pull my finger." The difference here is that my boys will reminisce about good ol' mom.

Klassy. Yeah, that's me.