Your 2-year-old may be in MENSA; he may play the piano beautifully; he may do long division in his head. He may even be able to put the square block in the square hole with some consistency, and not put spinach in his ears. Be that as it may, and I don’t want to brag, but our boy can fart on command.
This morning, we’re cuddling in bed per usual pre-getting-dressed-for-school, and he lies across me, belly to belly, and lets out the longest, trumpeting fart. The cat jumps off the bed and hides. Ian and I respond appropriately, with snorting chuckles, and say, “Mikey, did you fart?”
“Neiny fart,” he agreed. He calls himself Neiny. And then I felt his belly contract as he prepared another assault. This one was shorter but loud, a gun shot. We laughed some more.
“What was that?”
“Neiny fart more,” he explained.
“That was funny,” I inform him, because I’m concerned that our 2-year-old have a proper understanding of toilet humor.
“Ha ha ha,” he said, dutifully. “More?”
“No, that’s probably enough.”
He took my head in his hands, the way he does when he is dead serious about an issue. “Daddy, more?”
“Okay,” I acquiesced. “More.”
Upon which, he grimaced and let out the last bat’s squeak of a fart.
“Ha ha ha,” he said.
Daddy and Papa are bursting with pride (and more).
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