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.

None of My Business, But Thanks

There was a crying infant (three, four months?) in the subway, attended to by a frazzled mother and her friend.  “She’s obviously still thirsty,” said one.  “She can’t be,” said the other, “she finished all of her Dew.”  “Well, give her more,” replied the other.  “Ok.”  The mother opened the infant’s bottle, poured in some of her Mountain Dew, and gave the thing back to the baby.  “I don’t understand why she’s not napping.  Babies are supposed to nap.”

It was like watching a live episode of Springer.  As ignorant as I was about raising an infant, at least I didn’t overload sugar and caffeine and wonder why the tot isn’t sleeping.  I wonder if these parents ever looked at someone else and thought to themselves that at least they didn’t drop the baby.  And maybe those parents looked at the wolf-raised kids and felt better of their little football.  Schadenfreude, the coping mechanism of the clueless.

First Words

Your first word was “Dada,” for which I’m eternally proud. It was almost something much less endearing.

Mommy and I like to think of ourselves as decent cooks.  Not trusting the salt levels and other contents in mass produced infant food, we made our own, a laborious but fun task in the kitchen making purees and porridge, always, always layering in different flavor combinations (hrm… maybe your foodie tendencies are our fault) and always giving you new and sometimes exotic ingredients (Epipen at the ready) to try.  We were rewarded with your willingness to eat new things and your appetite and your smile when you found something new that you liked.  Shrimp, caramelized onions, lobster, carrots, garlic, shitake mushrooms, curry powder, beef, and beef stock were your favorites.  That isn’t to say that you didn’t act like a baby and occasionally try to repaint the walls with your dinner, but we really couldn’t complain.

You started speaking at nine months with a handful of the usual infant words, “Dada,” “Mama,” but you still relied more on sign language to communicate with us.  Your typical conversations with us at nine months consisted mainly of saying our names until you got our attention, and then using your hands to tell us what you wanted.

One night, when we sat down to dinner, you pointed at a bowl containing a new mash that Mommy wanted to try (a red bean of some sort) on you.  “Mama”, you said. “Food, please.  Hungry.” you signed, and opened your mouth wide for a big bite.  In the spoon went, and suddenly your face scrunched up as if you’d stubbed your toe.  “THIS SUCKS!”

Loud, clearly enunciated, and accurately used.  “THIS SUCKS!” you repeated, spitting out the bite.

After you were born, Mommy and I were very, very careful with our word choices around you, and we scratched our heads for the longest time that night wondering how you could have learned these words.