Bubba was in a particuarly good mood at dinner last night. She looked straight at me with those sparkling blue eyes, and announced, "I farted four times. Can you smell them?"

I replied, "No, but thanks."

She cackled. "I know they're coming your way, because I can see the stink cloud!"

I leaned forward to give Handsome more food, and the wretched smell of kid ass tortured my airways. I coughed out, "Good Lord! Now I smell it!"

Mower gleefully egged Bubba on by piping in, "I did too!" in a WASP manner of speaking, like how women do when another one gets a diamond from a whipped man.

Mower and Bubba chimed in unison, "That's GOOD STUFF!" and then gave each other high fives. They also initiated Handsome into the newly-formed ritual of celebrating noxious fumes at the dinner table by giving him high-fives and teaching him to give thumbs up as well.

Handsome, I am not upset with you for that, because you are a boy and you were going to torture me with your gas anyway. Mommy is upset because I miss the days when your sister farted and then celebrated in toddler singsong voice: "I toot. I fart. I toot. I fart." That was cute. The current method of using bodily gasses as a weapon, that concerns me, enough to have a gas mask on hand for when you can determine when you need to expel, use advanced thinking to create a plan, and then execute that plan to expel your weapon at my expense in syncronicity with the others. I really will be diving into the diaper pail for fresh air when that happens. It's only a matter of time.