“We’re Going to the Playground With Our ButTOCKS.”

That was Julia's explanation when I asked her about this picture she drew the other day:


The two smaller people are Alex and Julia, of course.  Julia wasn't entirely sure who the grown-up was.  First she said it was Joe, then I think she changed that to one of her teachers. 

Obviously it wasn't me, or there'd be butTOCKS hanging off the edge of the paper.  Hahahahaha.

And in case you need help (not that you should, but this was entertaining for me to do) recognizing the butTOCKS in the above illustration, I have pointed them out for you in the image below.


Oh, and on a sort of related note (more words from Julia's mouth), my parents were here last Friday and we were all in the living room – parents, me, and both kids because Alex stayed home from school because he had a cough.  JUST A COUGH, people. 

Anyway, I don't remember what conversation may have been taking place at the moment, or maybe there was just a lull, but anyway, Julia suddenly announced

"We belong to the fart club!"

I have not seen my mother laugh so hard in ages.  Really.  She was sitting in the tan chair in the living room, rolling back, her eyes squinting and her whole face ready to burst with laughter.  She was holding it in to be ladylike, I think.

And you know, I don't know where my kids get this.  Well  – okay, I do – I married him.  But it's just so alien to me, because you see, when I was a child, people didn't DO that.  Not in my family, anyway.  I don't even think I KNEW the word "Fart" until I was in elementary school.  And even then it just seemed like something people maybe talked about, but no one DID except for maybe the kid that they made up some chant about that ended with "the car couldn't take it/the car fell apart/all because of (insert name here)'s/supersonic fart!" 

But in my house?  No one ever did the F word.  Or anything like it.  Perhaps we just ate such a well-balanced diet that we never HAD excess gas to emit.  I don't know. 

But anyway, here I am, in a household where my children and my husband are members of an elite gas-producing group called The Fart Club.  I was not a member for ages until Julia heard me burp and I was granted a limited membership. 

Anyway, back to my parents.  And Julia and her big mouth.  And Alex's.  They went on to explain the requirements for membership and that Mommy was, sadly, not a full member. 

Conversation rolled along uneventfully after that for a bit, until Julia shouted (because why just talk when you can shout to the person three feet away from you?) "Alex!  Do your ARMPIT FARTS!"

And he did.

Alex showcased his armpit farting talents in a glowing display of not ONLY armpit farts, but also the often-difficult Behind The Knee Farts (egged on by his sister, of course "DO THE KNEE ONES!") followed by the professional-caliber Squeakers.  (Armpit farts that require superior manipulation of the cupped hand and armpit cavern in order to produce thin, high-pitched squealing sounds.)

My children were manic, carried away by Alex's talent and Julia's enthusiasm.

And my mother was overcome.  All she could do at that point was sort of sprawl across the chair, eyes watering, laughing helplessly.

6 thoughts on ““We’re Going to the Playground With Our ButTOCKS.”

  1. Okay, I’m laughing so hard right now. Your daughter’s picture reminded me of the time that my then kindergarten-age daughter handed a lovingly drawn picture of a dog to its owner, a kindly old couple we knew. She smiled sweetly and chirped, “This is a picture of Charlie and his Blue Balls”. The entire table erupted in laughter and I didn’t know what to say.

    As for the Fart Club, don’t feel badly…my husband taught my children that it is the Fart Game. Enough said.

  2. Oh… that was a great post. I have seen many a drawing by 4 and 5 yr olds with the disproportionate body parts. There’s always a logical explanation, and it’s rarely what we dirty minded adults are thinking. These are my first butTOCKS…. We just had a Kindergartner at the school where I work refer to the Asst. Principal as Mr. Pis. Seems the boy and the Registrar have been ‘writing letters’ to each other and she referred to Mr. Pitcock as Mr. P. She wrote “Mr. P is not as funny as me.” Well there wasn’t a full finger space between the P in Mr. P and the word IS. He read it as Mr. Pis and thought it sounded good. He then started calling the Asst. Principal Mr. Pis.

    Jayne, wait until your daughter learns to use a bendy soda straw hidden under her arm to make the farting sound. Never say never, girl.

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