Boys love toots

Boys like toots. And boys like poop. And boys like all manner of yuck. At least my boy does. I promise I didn't push him toward grossness. I didn't call him over to investigate Rosie's first poops. I don't get excited when I audibly fart in the grocery store. His love of ick is a genetic mutation passed on from man to man. There is no other rationale. None.

So when my son wakes me in the morning with "Yuck momma. Big big big poopie." I pray that the poo is still in the diaper.

And when he rushes over and wrestles with my arm to see the bucket of yuck that Miss Rose has created in her diaper, I can only roll my eyes and blame his daddy and his daddy and his daddy and his daddy . . .

And when we smell something terrible, he will laugh hysterically and shriek "momma stinks!" even if he has no idea where the stench is coming from.

And so we I audibly toot in the grocery store, I will laugh and say "Did you toot Mr. Kraken?" and he will say "Uh Huh!" Because boys love toots. And boys are expected to toot in public. And I don't feel the least bit bad for making him take credit for my passing gas. Not even a little.