Those of you who have boys will understand (unless my sons are some sort of aberration and this post is far from your reality). A window into my world, will undoubtedly show you many things but it’s the things you hear that are the focal point today. You see, if you were to spend a day with me, you would be treated to a symphony of noise reminiscent of the greatest of whoopee cushions. Not to brag, but my sons truly have a talent of the ‘flatulent variety’. I’m so proud (insert sarcasm).
This veritable orchestra of sound and subject matter seems to find its primary venue at the dinner table. No matter what the topic of conversation was at the beginning of a dialogue, it will always devolve into some reference to or imitation of gas or anything related to the rear end. We could be sitting at the table discussing anything, from weather to current events, and I guarantee that one of my boys will let one rip. Not an actual stink bomb, mind you, but certainly some form of noise or comment that will quickly spread to another boy at the table (including their father...truthfully he often starts it), like some airborne virus, until any semblance of normalcy is gone.
I recall one conversational occasion that has stuck with me as an exemplar of my point. I was preparing dinner while my two, youngest sons sat at the kitchen table doing homework. While I don’t remember the specifics of the inane conversation they were having, I do recall my comment and the witty response from my youngest boy.
It went like this:
Mom: “You boys have the weirdest conversations.”
Boys: giggling ensues followed by a lengthy, quiet pause
Youngest boy: turns to his brother and asks, “Do you think Gus’ butt looks big?”
Gus is the dog. He’s small and clearly doesn’t qualify as a big-butt dog breed. Needless to say, I did temporarily need to stop making dinner as I fell into a fit of hysterical laughter.
While this particular episode was unique, the devolution of any conversation in my house, is not. From hand farts, and real ones, to any and all references to the toilet, I’ve heard it all, every day, multiple times a day, since they learned how to blow bubbles as babies.
Yep, it’s the whoopee cushion effect of boys.