Hold Your Nose, Life's a Gas

Like most children, my daughter Grace is a study in contrast.  She likes to dress up like a princess, yet enjoys running, jumping, climbing and crashing into things all over the playground. In school she is an angelic teacher's helper. At home she can be a wild child.  With her charm and manners, she can win over a room. And with toots that would make the cast of Blazing Saddles jealous, she can clear a room.  Grace takes great delight in ripping a high-quality pant rocket .  Yes, much to my wife Amanda's chagrin, Grace has discovered one of life's Indisputable Human Truths: Farts are Funny.

It is true. No matter what your family calls the act- tooting, beefing,  cutting the cheese -farting is funny.  Think about it, through the course of history, what has elicited more giggles,  chuckles, or outright howling laughs than a well-timed ass blast?  Exactly.  Of course, the key term in that sentence is "well-timed."  As you can imagine, Amanda and I have different definitions of a "well-timed fart." 

As parents, we are trying to provide a united front.  As students of comedy, we disagree slightly on the rules of engagement.  At the dinner table?  Off limits.  In a quiet classroom, church, or meeting?  No way.  Every other situation? I say use your best judgement.  Amanda then reminds me I'm an idiot.  The fact remains farting is funny  and my girl has a gift.  I am, as Amanda sees it, to blame for Grace's gift/curse/ability to conjure up a cloud of hot garbage.  I get it.  After all, my wife has never passed gas. Never. Ever. Not once.  She lays the blame squarely at my cheeks feet.  I think Amanda is taken aback by our cute seven-year-old girl acting like a twelve-year-old boy.  Grace has become a bit obsessed with all things bathroom related.  Talk of poop, toots, and the like send her into fits of laughter.  I get it.  I still think bathroom humor is funny.  Deep down I am still twelve.  Amanda, not so much.

This leaves me with a big challenge.  It is my duty (heehee, I said doody) to balance teaching Grace manners with sharing my supposed knowledge and fartistry.  Because if I am going to be blamed for making Grace a gaseous monster, I am going to get my money's worth.  So far, Grace only knows floating an air biscuit equals big laughs.    She must study the deviousness of SBD, dutch ovens, and crop dusting.  She must revel in the simplistic joy of Pull My Finger.  She must beware the perils of the shart.  And, of course, she must learn nuance.

Grace, like Spiderman before her, must accept that with great power comes great responsibility.  For the fartist, timing is everything.  She must understand that just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  But it is sometimes hard for me to be stern with a lesson when all I want to to do is laugh along.  She really does have a knack  for bringing the thunder from down under at hilarious times. And her peals of laughter are hearty and genuine.  It is hard to not laugh with her.  My eyes often tear up, either from pride or because Grace has made a room smell like the zoo.  So, we seek balance, we seek the line between Grace being a lady and the girl who recently, after being chastised for stepping on a duck, told her mother, "Fartin's a part of life, Mom!"