Monday, August 25, 2008

From the bowels of . . . my babies

My children love bodily functions. (Okay, so do their dad and I, but my kids are raising it to an art form!)
Bug is a champion burper. Give him a drink, he'll belch it for you. Repeatedly and with increasing fervor. And he'll say excuse me every time. Every time he does it in your face.
Boo is my stanky child. His poops will not only clear the room but burn your nose hairs off.
It's one of those moments where I yell, "What has your mother been feeding you?" and then I realize I am his mother, I know what he's been eating, and somewhere, in the depths of that small body, it has become toxic goo.
Oh Punk! My sweet baby girl is gas machine. She'll toot when she rolls, hiccups, sleeps, or grins. She lives her leg to let the aroma flow. She even freaked her poor dad out by tooting on his finger when he applied diaper cream.
My children are well versed in their bodily functions.
Bug has to announce every bathroom trip, and, if he does number 2, he yells loudly for us to come see what he's done.
And he describes the size and number of floating nuggets with obvious love and joy.
And if they are really big, he brags.
Boo is currently starting the road to potty trained success. Which means we're in love with an Elmo potty seat and he giggles with glee at the mention of *gasp* underwear!
Punk is hopeless. She laughs at all manner or noises emitted by her body and everyone else's. She thinks the bubble sin the bathtub are cause for celebration and squeals of joy. She doesn't seem to mind the stench her brothers regularly emit.
She thinks it funny.
She's a sick, sick child.
It's times like this where I shake my head and very devoutly place the blame squarely on their father's shoulders.

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