Kids can’t help but burst into giggles every time they let one rip—because let’s face it, farting is downright hilarious. It can be loud, it can be stinky, and when it’s both, it’s pure comedy gold.
Believe it or not, we don’t really outgrow this humor. Even in my 30s, I sometimes stifle a grin if I accidentally unleash a “silent but deadly” on a crowded subway or in an elevator, discreetly watching for anyone to catch a whiff and react with a grimace or a quick sniff. Dr. Seuss was onto something when he said, “Adults are just outdated children.”
Unfortunately, in the grown-up world, flatulence can be cringe-worthy—especially at work. If it’s loud enough for a colleague to hear or smells bad enough to cause a reaction, I turn beet red. If there’s little chance anyone will notice, I might not even register it myself. But my 4-year-old son, Max, always seems to keep track of my gaseous emissions.
I recently came across a trivia tidbit claiming the average person passes gas 14 times daily. After sharing this with a friend, we decided to test the theory the next day. Either that fact was totally off, or we were both overachievers, because we more than doubled that number—each!
Not only does Max catch me when I actually fart, but he also assumes it’s me whenever he hears or smells something even remotely similar. A squeaky door, a bubble popping, or a nearby manhole cover inevitably prompts his loud declaration: “Mommy, you farted!” I can only roll my eyes and try to mimic the sound to prove my innocence.
It’s like he has an unbreakable instinct to announce any perceived flatulence, regardless of where we are—be it Costco, a kids’ birthday party, or a packed park. Each time this occurs in public, I shoot him the “not in public” glare that all mothers acquire the moment they give birth, repeating the same whisper I’ve used since he blurted out to a pregnant woman in a store that “the baby is coming out of your vagina!” (In hindsight, I probably should have held off on some of the details for a while longer, but hey, he’s my first kid—what do I know?)
At home, Max unleashes a barrage of potty words, turning our living room into a stage for his comedy act. “No toot’s too big, no fart’s too small!” he sings during the theme song of his favorite show.
“Max!” I reprimand, raising my eyebrows in disbelief.
“What?” he replies, genuinely puzzled as to why I’m interrupting his rendition of a beloved children’s song.
Later, when I ask him what he wants for dinner, he giggles and proclaims, “Tooty poop with farts on the side!” This has become a running joke, especially when he douses his plate with way too much ketchup, just to hear the hilarious squirt sound. Sometimes, I consider putting a fake piece of dog poop on his plate to teach him a lesson about potty humor—because my current methods clearly aren’t working.
“Max,” I asked him, “why do you feel the need to announce when I fart?”
“Because! You might not know that you farted,” he insists.
“So?” I respond, “I really don’t need to know.”
“Yes, you do! Because…you farted!” he exclaims, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.
Given that this is the same child who insists on sitting on a stool beside me when I go to the bathroom, I shouldn’t be surprised. Clearly, scolding him doesn’t help, nor does reasoning with him (a preschooler and logic don’t often mix). So tonight, I decided to embrace my little stinker and maybe even use it to my advantage. “Hey Max, want to hear a ridiculously silly song?” I asked during dinner. “It starts like this: ‘Beans, beans, the magical fruit…’”