“I pooted,” Thing 1 says for the fifteenth time that day, giggling.
She closes her eyes and counts to ten. She doesn’t tell him that it’s rude to fart in public, she doesn’t tell him that it’s gross. She just calms down and continues walking through the grocery store aisle.
“Momma, did’ja hear me? I said I POOTED,” Thing 1 practically yells at her, grabbing her shirt and yanking.
She stops and says, “I heard you, son, calm down.” She throws something in to her buggy and continues walking.
“It felt good. The pooting felt good, Mama. Did’ja hear it?”
Inside, she dies.
She also thinks some not nice things about her husband. Like the fact that he should be teaching their five year old that although pooting is funny to boys, it’s not something you talk about in public. Or something. She was really hoping her husband would know all this etiquette crap, because she, sure as shiznit, never heard any of it.
She let out a defeated sigh. “Thing 1, let’s talk about this in the car, please?”
He giggled again. “My butt is STINKY MAMA! I’VE GOT A STIIIIIIINKY BUTT!”
He and Thing Two burst into giggles.
She looks around and smiles to herself.
She finally gets the children through the checkout lane as they announce to the cashier that they pooted in the aisles, and it should be cleaned, while she turns a thousand different shades of red. The cashier, an elderly lady, looks embarrased for her, then disgusted and then a little pissy as the children giggle and continue to tell the tales of their pooting expedition.
She loads them up in their vehicular mode of transportation and they ride home in silence.
Except for the occasional poots. That are not followed by giggles, but foul odors.
And she vows she will never again serve baked beans in her house again, as she opens the window, gagging through the stench.
She wouldn’t have life any other way, though, she thinks to herself. Although, she could do without the smelliness.