Three boys and one bathroom can make for real excitement, but that's a støry I'll save for another day.
Jesse, one of my almost–7-year-olds, is—much like my father was—a real gasbag. Think jet-engine-propelled farts (we do try to say passing gas in front of the kids). As I type, in fact, I'm listening to a veritable Verdi of gas-passing coming from my little one. He's obliviously playing Game Boy as he toots away.
A couple of weeks ago, Jesse's teacher, the young and sweet Miss Rabbit (name changed to protect her), complained about the emissions my little gasbag was creating in class.
Ridiculous, you say?
Me too, though based on what he's capable of at home, I can well imagine the distraction his not-so-tiny toots might cause among a bunch of first–graders.
We assured Miss Rabbit that Jesse would curtail his gas-passing.
I spoke to the little culprit that night and he said (with great excitement), "Mommy! I figured something out today! When I push my farts out, they're big. When I don't push them out, they're soft."
After a few words of warning, Jesse agreed to opt for the soft approach.
The next day, Miss Rabbit, reported, Jesse excused himself from class, went to the bathroom and did his farting in privacy.
Now that's progress.