Learning How to Lie Properly, Epilogue

*After catching you in a lie about who poured water all over the bathroom:

Me:  Cookie, you have to tell the truth, ok?  You can’t say something that didn’t happen.

Cookie: Ok.

Me:  If you did it, you must tell Mommy and Daddy you did it.

Cookie: Ok.

*Later that day:

Me:  What is that smell?

Cookie:  I did it!  I farted!

Me:  *gag*  Ok, Cookie.  Good job telling the truth.

Cookie:  The truth is funny!  I farted!

Mommy:  Why is she proud of her farts?  What did you teach her?

The consequences of teaching you to tell the truth is that now, two years later, you really are proud of your farts.  At your aunt’s wedding, you wowed everyone by flawlessly switching between your four languages, answering different people in the language of the questions asked.  While they were congratulating you, you raised both hands to stop everyone.  In a dead serious tone, you proudly announced that you spoke another language, whereupon you, in your little flower girl dress, turned around, raised your butt, and let one fly.

Learning How to Lie Properly, Part 2

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.

That Is Not What the Cry Room Is For, But They’re Definitely Crying Now

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.


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.


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.