Today I had one of those Embarrassing Parental Moments.
Caity needed to go potty while we finishing up our Big Boy brunch, so I took her. While we were washing hands afterward, an old woman entered the bathroom and closed herself into the only stall. Shortly thereafter, an extremely loud, wet fart trumpeted through the air.
"That lady made a big toot!" Caity exclaimed, as I knew she would.
"I know, but it's not nice to talk about it," I softly informed her, trying to remain stern but wanting to howl with laughter. It HAD been a big toot. The kind that I hope to never deliver while in a public restroom.
"It was a really big toot!" Caity insisted.
"It's not nice to talk about," was all I could say as I hustled her the heck out of there.
It's too bad, really, that's it's rude to point out farts and such in mixed company. I know we're supposed to pretend that we didn't hear anything (or, in a worse situation, smell anything), and the person who dealt it is supposed to pretend that they had nothing to do with it. But why? Wouldn't it just be easier for all parties to simply say, "wow, that was a good one," or "nice delivery" and get on with our lives? Instead, the witnesses have to stifle their guffaws and the guilty party has to cringe with shame. And everyone walks around with cramped bowels while in public to avoid such a thing happening to them.
Ah, to be four again and able to observe and report on the happenings of life without being hampered by the boundaries of societal norms!
How did a story about a fart become a introspective, sociological analysis?
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