The Daver and I frequently play a game with our kids that I like to call “Whose Genetics Are THOSE?” Anything from cowlicks (me) to inability to turn away from the television while it’s on and drooling slack-jawed like the village idiot at it (Daver, obviously) to preference or distaste for foods (usually, shamefully, me) is fair game.
The genes we’re most proud of are quickest to be claimed: my luscious mane of hair, his ability to get more pee on the floor than in the toilet bowl or to put his dirty socks down the laundry chute, my ability to always be right no matter what. Those are the first to be asserted.
What’s left are the dregs. Or what I THOUGHT were the dregs until a couple of days ago.
You see, the stomach flu is making it’s way around our house in various forms. Ben barfed, I vacated my bowels while feverish on the can at 3 AM, Dave rode the porcelain God all afternoon and Alex (currently) has the screaming shits.
And with the screaming shits, comes, of course, the dreaded flatulence. The kid can now fart loudly enough for me to mistake it for his father. It’ll echo around a room and lay a fine greasy layer of sulfur all over everything, like the rotted egg of a gigantic chicken. I honestly had to check and make sure that Alex had not gotten his hands on my iFart application for my iPhone. He hadn’t.
This, of course, because I am most mature, I find hilarious. Side-splitingly so.
Laughter is a powerful motivator in the eyes of a two year old, so he has now learned to fart on command just to make me laugh. The sense of humor and desire to make someone laugh at all costs is all mine (doubt me? Read this. ‘Nuff said).
But the gas? That’s ALL his father. And I am SO jealous.
My own pocket-sized iFarter.