My boys are making me gross.
Let me explain. I’ve always been kind of a tomboy girl, kind of rough around the edges, totally not a girly girl, the kind of girl who often gets along better with guys. That kind. In a lot of ways I am glad I had a boy, because I always joke that I would not have known what to do if we had had a girl, especially one who loved shopping, frills and makeup. I would have been lost. No joke. Prior to my injury, doing my hair meant breaking out the straightening iron (which my mom bought for me). I don’t even own a blow drier, haha. I almost never wear makeup, and when I do it is lipstick and maybe some eyeliner if I am feeling ambitious. Admittedly, though, I do love my red lips when I get dressed up.
I was in the Army, and spent many months living in coed barracks, which meant that the person on the other side of my locker was male, as was the person diagonally across from me. It’s just how it was, and was no bid deal. I’ve worked in very male dominated jobs and am comfortable being one of the guys in most cases. I like football, I’m pretty even keeled and am in no way delicate. Ha.
My family has always found great humour in bodily functions – my dad always used to look around all surprised when he tooted and would say “oh man, did you hear that frog?” Cue the laughter all around. When I was on my Basic Training, my mom sent me a card that said something like “never let them see you sweat but it’s ok to let the hear you fart.” Needless to say my troop loved seeing that one.
Throughout all this, though, I have tried to maintain a certain (albeit not sky high) standard of decorum. I was not one to fart in public (please note, I still am!), and for approximately the first 13 years of my marriage I would never purposely break wind in front of my husband, occasionally holding it to the point of getting stomach cramps. Why? You might ask. I don’t blame you. I ask myself the same thing sometimes. Although I would laugh (occasionally slightly horrifiedly) at some of the poop jokes and just general guy grossness of my friends and co-workers I made sure that I was always just a bit less icky.
And then I became a boy mum.
At first it wasn’t so bad. I could still disappear into another room to let one off and the bathroom was still a place for quiet sanctuary and contemplation. But then it started. My guy started getting to the age where Captain Underpants was the funniest thing ever and it was ON. Suddenly all of the jokes had to do with gas (not the kind you put in your car either) and poop was hilarious. Cries of things like “Oh man, Excuse me, hahahaha” or “Oh, Mummy just has to go and take a giant poo” followed by peals of laughter rang through my house. Butt cheeks were lifted off seats or pointed towards faces for effect. Burping the alphabet or a song became more commonplace ( and that was my husband!) and a new kid goal.
Flatlence contests became a regular thing. Someone sitting on the couch might be unexpectedly hit with a gas blast pretty much right in the face, always when they weren’t paying attention. That surprised look and gut busting giggles – always worth it. For the longest time, it was just the boys who did this. People would be ambushed while putting on shoes, picking up toys or bending over to fix things. Any faces near butt level were fair game. “Why doesn’t mommy fart?” was Q’s question. “Because she is weird” was always the answer.
Until one day I did. I stood up from the couch and one slipped out despite my best efforts, pretty much directly right into Q’s face, who had been sitting next to me. Ohmygosh, whoops. His eyes grew big for a split second me he started to laugh, that deep, genuine body wracking laugh that is the most amazing sound in the world. He almost fell off the couch and was clutching his sides, gasping “Mummy just FARTED in my face!!!”. And the of course he was desperate to reciprocate and repay that favour, as I’m sure you can imagine.
After that it was just a matter of time before I got dragged down the hole of toilet humour. I am slightly ashamed to admit that I have dropped something on the floor, and asked the kid to pick it up so that he was in range. But in all fairness he does it to me too! I actually bought him a whoopie cushion.
I have learned what a dragon slayer poo was. I know many, many ways to describe bathroom use. Just this morning I got to hear about a “record setting” drop off. While I was eating my breakfast. Lucky me. I uttered the appropriate congratulations and went back to my bowl of mini-wheats. Didn’t even phase me.
Who am I?
I’m a proud boy mum, that’s who. I may not be able to burp (seriously!) but I have realized that if it makes my boy smile and laugh, I am not above farting in his general direction. I draw the line at taking pictures of my poo or anyone elses, although I will admit, I *almost* took pictures of some suspected bear droppings that clearly showed the berries because I thought he’d find them interesting. But, if sharing stories of massive deposits and nasty gas makes him think that I am a cool mum, you had better believe I will do it.
Please reassure me I’m not alone?