The next evolution of the fart saga occurred when your behind bellowed in a crowded elevator. Your stroller stood in the corner, and the source of the noise not only came from your direction, it also came from direction lower than what would have been possible for the other adults present.
Cookie: Not me!
All of the adults grinned at the obviously false proclamation of an one-year-old… until the noxious fumes caused people with weaker stomachs to gag. I had to wait for fresh air before explaining:
Me: Cookie, you can’t deny it’s you, when everyone knows it’s you.
Cookie: Ok, Daddy.
The wheels of your brain churning were clearly evident on your face. The next fart came a few minutes later.
Cookie waving your arms like a Madagascar penguin: You didn’t hear anything.
Also known as, should I really be teaching my one-year-old this stuff?
This story starts, as many of these stories start, with a fart. It was a loud fart, like a balloon popping, a sound that startled both you and me. We were in the middle of changing you into your pjs, just after brushing your teeth and before reading your bedtime books. Mommy was still in the kitchen cleaning up the dinner plates.
Me: That was a big one!
Cookie: Mommy did it.
Me: No, Mommy didn’t do it; she’s not even here.
Your face shows some serious thought occurring in that brain of yours.
Cookie: Then, you did it!
Me: No, I would know if I did it. You can’t blame someone else for your fart if everyone knows it’s not true.
Ten minutes later, after Mommy had joined us, and while we’re reading books, you let another loud fart rip.
Cookie: I didn’t do it. You don’t know if Mommy did it, and you don’t know if Daddy did it!
Mommy: ! What did you teach her?
Cookie, as a baby, you rarely cried in church. Instead, you’d do… other things. At just under a year old, you had the comedic timing and the premeditation to wait until the entire church was silent before ripping off a monstrous fart, followed by a loud giggle.
Cookie: I FARTED! IT’S STINKY!
Another loud giggle. I tried to shush you, but I gagged on the smell. A demon brew of rotten eggs, limburger, feet, durian, and sulfur left to marinate in a sweaty gym bag would have smelled better. My eyes were watering, but I was kept focused on that moment by your loud voice echoing in the stunned silence.
Cookie: STINKY! MY FART’S STINKY!
By this time, I was halfway down the aisle with you, but your farts didn’t stop, and the more you farted, the harder you giggled. Where most new parents carry a crying baby to the cry room, I carried a gassy, giggling baby, trailing a cloud of toxic fumes in our wake, with the entire nave echoing from your thunderous farts and louder giggles. The only good news was that instead of annoyed faces, I walked out to the suppressed grins from the other parents and the scattered laughter of the other kids.
The other babies and parents in the cry room were not quite as pleased.