My dad and I went to the Boston Garden last night to watch the Celtics kick the holy hell out of the Miami Heat, while Will stayed with my mom and fell asleep at their house. I didn’t get back to pick him up until 12:30 a.m., at which point I had to wake the poor kid up and put him in the carseat for our ride home. He was really good about it, and fell back asleep for the majority of the 45-minute ride back to the Cape.
When we got home I grabbed him out of the carseat once again, at which point he got a little fussy. I don’t blame him, I woke him up out of a dead sleep twice and brought him out in the chilly weather. So as I’m carrying him up the walk to our front door through the early morning darkness, Will turns to face me suddenly and says “DADA!!”
And then he ripped not one, not two, but three extremely intense farts.
These were LOUD. Maybe they were just amplified by the stillness and dead quiet of the wee morning, but all I know is he farted right on my arm and the vibrations carried all the way to my feet. If any seismologists want to know what that slight tremor was at 1:10 a.m. in the area of Bourne, Massachusetts, fear not. It was merely my son displaying his staggering gastrointestinal capabilities.
But the best part was the aftermath.
After he farted, I was flat out impressed. Seriously, it was that good. So he farts, and then there’s this three second pause where I look at him incredulously and he looks at me as if to say “Whoa…did I just do that?” So we’re staring at each other, and then at the exact same time we both start laughing hysterically. Giggling like little kids, which is cool for him and possibly pathetic for me that I still find farts this funny at 30 years old. Then we high-fived.
I excitedly told MJ about this because I thought it was damned hilarious, but she just thought we were disgusting and ridiculous. Whatever, she just doesn’t get it. Some things are solely meant to be between a father and a son.