I'll be the first to confess that I'm really very immature in a lot of ways. I'm not mature in many ways that a mother probably usually would be mature in. It's almost like my growth in certain areas has been completely stunted - never surpassing a middle school level.
In what area could I possibly be so immature? Well - though my husband would claim there are many, I'll confess to only one: scatalogical humor (or as my even brighter and more mature elder sister might inadvertently say: scatagorical humor. . . which must have something to do with the game Scatagories). What exactly is scatalogical humor? According to the dictionary, the noun scatology can be defined as: a preoccupation with feces, filth, and obscenities. Thus, quite simply, scatalogical humor is a big, grown-up phrase meaning: potty humor. Call me a Juvenile Judy, but this truly is my main area of recessed development.
I've heard other mothers jokingly comment on their young children's potty talk with eye rolls and general sense of embarrassment. I've also on occasion heard other woman belittlingly reference not only their children but also their spouse's preoccupation with bathroom humor. But I've yet to meet another Mom who still finds bowels and boogers to be so amusing.
It's with great delight that I bring this sense of humor into our daily home life. I don't mean to tell on myself, but I have been known to inadvertently toot without any comment - forewarning or apology. A couple times little Jimmy has looked at me with concern and asked, "What was that?"
"What?" I might antagonize a bit.
"Did you just hear that? That little noise?" he'll responded quietly.
"It must have been a farting ghost!" I'll tell him. "Do you think it's possible that there's a ghost somewhere near us - a farting ghost?!" Little Jimmy usually then picks up on my game, and will slowly smile as it dawns on him that it's actually his mother doing the farting.
About a year or so ago little Jimmy became really preoccupied with tanker trucks of varying kinds. He'd point them out on the road or in the parking lot and ask with great anticipation what the truck was carrying. Usually, it was oil or gas; occasionally milk or even orange juice. The real moment of truth came when he pointed to a septic tank truck and asked "What's in that one?". I started laughing as I considered how to tactfully answer this one; this only further fueled his curiosity. Eventually I had to answer, "Well, honey. It's a poo-poo truck. It carries poo-poo." Little Jimmy couldn't believe his ears - and I couldn't believe what I was having to share with my then three year old. Just the thought of various professional tanker trucks traveling the highways and byways of America - creating revenue and jobs and helping people in various ways. And then there were these. . these ingrates. . these filthy trucks that simply traversed towns collecting dung. Well, it was enough to have us in stitches for the next fifteen minutes. We just couldn't collect ourselves; every few minutes we'd manage to quit laughing, but then the hysteria would overtake us again for several more minutes.
Last night at dinner another rather self-incriminating event occurred. After the recent beef scare, I've been attempting to cook more vegan foods. Unfortunately the more fibrous consistency of this new eating style has a tendency of coming back to all of us again and again and again. The four of us were sitting around eating our dinner. I sat in my chair "criss-cross applesauce" (as Jimmy would put it) while attempting to feed Kyla. All day she had eaten really well, but by dinnertime was expressing some disinterest. "C'mon Kyla. It's black beans and tofu. You had it for lunch; why won't you eat some now?" I said, followed up by a rather brazen gas pass. My husband looked at me horrified. "That's disgusting!" he said as I tried to hide my snickering. "Did your mother ever fart at the table when you were younger?!" he questioned with a tone of horror. "I don't think she did! And I can tell you my mother never did either! It's like you've never grown up!". Well, I guess he's right. I've never gotten over potty humor - it's still fresh and witty to me even after twenty-seven years.