This is going to be a bit awkward, but the whole point of this blog is about letting you into our lives, so here goes. Don't worry, I'll keep it short.
I fart.
Before you rush to judge, remember that everyone does it. Including women and children. And sometimes, the fart itself is merely a metaphor, representing something even greater than a gross sound and unpleasant odor.
Work with me, here, people.
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the dinner table with Tanya, Ella and Sophia, when Ella let one rip. Tanya, channeling her usual disdain for flatulence at mealtime, said to our 10-year-old, "It's polite to walk away from the table before doing that." Amid the undercurrent of quiet laughter from the three others in the room who weren't particularly bothered, Tanya shook her head in exasperation. Oy vey, she seemed to say.
We finished eating and Tanya soon went upstairs, but our dainty 10-year-old continued her assault on our senses. Like most men, the farting doesn't bother me that much, so I figured I'd have a little fun and see where it went.
"Why didn't you walk away to do that?" I asked Ella, only a tiny bit guilty at hearing my own sarcasm. "You heard mom."
"Sometimes, I can't help not being polite," Ella responded. "It's just how I do things. Because you're my dad."
I'm sure you can imagine the rush of paternal pride I felt. Forget about the flatulence: my eldest child had essentially confirmed that she had no desire to pull the brakes on the gene train. Despite Tanya's efforts for a well-mannered and polite household, my firstborn clearly understood the inevitability of DNA, and wasn't about to fight.
What more could a father hope for?
Pass the beans.
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