Dashed High Society Dreams

Won't ever wear it. Might as well eat it.

                If you had asked me right up until the time I found out the news, I would have sworn up and down I was having a baby boy. But when the doctor confirmed (99.9% - but don't sue me if you buy the wrong clothes) that Chris was going to be a girl, I immediately switched gears and started imagining all the joys a little lady would bring. I say little lady because, much like Kate Middleton's mother, it took nanoseconds for me to shift my childhood dreams onto my daughter. I was already planning our alignment with the royal family.
                But I’ve come to the harsh realization that it’s just no use.

                You see, we come from a very long line of people who, try as we might, always end up quite the opposite of royalty. Translation: we have very little class. Second translation: we can’t help it, we love our fart humor. Yeah, we’re a lot like teenage frat boys around this place and giggle about who is the loudest or stinkiest. Spoiler alert: it’s not me.

                I suppose I should blame myself that Chris didn’t break the uncouth cycle. I have never seen a baby nearly as gassy as she was. I didn’t understand that a farty baby is a happy baby because if that bubble of gas is stuck inside it causes baby intense pain and makes baby scream bloody murder.

But Chris was clearly a happy baby and earned herself the nickname “Toots McTooty Pants.” She knew instinctively she had to get it all out. And she learned quickly that if it’s accompanied by a funny face, or is done at the most inconvenient time around company I want to impress, adults can’t do much but laugh about it.

Guess what I probably just did.

                She also learned that the heaviest diapers earned the loudest, ‘Whooooo wheeeee!” and kicked her little baby legs in glee whenever she met the mark. I do have to say that some of the fascination with excavation is the fault of pediatricians who made us keep a diary of what time she pooped, how much she pooped, what the poop looked like, what she ate to make her poop, etc. New parents have no choice but to constantly talk about pants contents and, if you’re cool like us, joke about it.

                I will never, ever, in a million years, forget the screaming phone call I made to her father in which I had to tell him Chris had “dropped the kids off at the pool” during her bath time. Then screamed some more when I had to scoop out the floatie to flush it, then give her a second bath because she had bathed in poop water.

                The laughter backfired on us a few times. Early on at preschool we had to have “a little meeting” with the school administrator about how Chris kept trying to cause a ruckus by blurting out “poop” and “fart”. We had to drop the hammer quickly and declare all those words “bathroom words” that are only allowed to be used in the restroom. Lots of running to the loo with yelling out disgusting words immediately ensued.

                It wasn’t long before Chris began to try to lure me into the bathroom so she could shock me with her vocabulary. Recently she asked me to step inside and take a deep breath, promising that it smelled “fresh and clean.” I, in my stupidity, tentatively checked it out only to have my nose hairs confirm what I should have known was a trick. I yelled, “Oh my God! It smells like something died!”

                “I’ll tell you what died,” she countered. “My dignity. That’s what died.”

                Of course, she had no idea what dignity meant. She simply heard the phrase on TV and figured it must apply in this case. But I agree, there is no dignity in trying to kill your very own mother via gaseous poisoning.

The onesie says it all. Poops. I did it again.

                Her bathroom humor isn’t always intentional. Sometimes it’s the most innocent remarks that are the most hilarious.

                One morning, when Chris was around 3 years old, she crawled into the warm space beside me. She snuggled up, sighed horrible morning breath in my face, and admitted in a weary voice, “Mom. I have butt crust.”

                I wasn’t familiar with the term but tried to maintain composure.

 “Uh, do you think maybe you didn’t wipe very well last time you went potty?” I asked.

She seemed to consider this for a few moments and conceded that maybe “we” should go check.

Still half asleep, I followed her to the bathroom where she proceeded to pull down her pajama bottoms, bend over and spread her cheeks with both hands. Trust me. This is definitely not the first thing you want to see in the morning. I still have nightmares.

Turning away I handed her some toilet paper and told her to wipe again, frantically trying to make an escape. Alas, she followed me out of the bathroom with the toilet paper in her hand to prove to me that she missed nothing while wiping. I agreed there was nothing there and I’m afraid I yelled for her to get it out of my face and into the toilet.

Ignoring my disgust, she stared at the toilet paper in wonder for a few seconds. Finally, a light bulb must have gone off.

“Ohhh! That must be because it’s magic butt crust. When you can’t see it, it’s magic.”

Yes, our bathroom antics are simply magical! Cue the fairy music and glittery dust.

                I wish I could blame her father for the fact that Chris will probably never rise above her common roots. He does have a lot of friends who enjoy crude humor when they get together. Or probably any other waking moment because like attracts like, right? 

               I do have to take responsibility for a big portion of it though, and blame the failure mostly on my own crude roots. My grandfathers on both sides of the family loved to sing, “Beans, beans the musical fruit! The more you eat the more you toot! The more you toot the better you feel! So let’s have beans for every meal!” And we do like those beans.

                But I will say that I realized just a couple of days ago that her father’s influence did seal her fate. The other day I looked at my sweet girl, dressed in a pretty little dress, hair curled just so, eagerly helping me make supper. Suddenly she dropped the stirring spoon and announced, “If you’ll excuse me. I gotta go hit the can.”

                Yep, I doubt her crowned photo will ever grace a postage stamp.

Yet another crown we will never wear for reals.