So toots, farts, whatever you call them, are a hot topic of conversation in our house. Shoot, I could devote a whole blog to Gavin and the noxious odors coming from his butt. We all try to blame our bodily functions on someone else (mostly the cat...poor Picky Picky). Tonight at dinner someone - I won't name names but I will say he was the first one in our family to have the last name LaDore - was entertaining us in a most musical way. Of course he tries to blame it on poor Picky Picky, who just stands there with her head cocked, looking strangely at us. Although, come to think of it, Scott may have instantly anesthetized her and she was rendered immobile. Francesca then comes up with this little gem, which made me and Scott laugh so hard we almost cried:
"Mommy, when we are in gym, coach burps and toots and tries to blame it on us kids. That's really bad Mommy, do you know that?"
Oh my...here I was worrying about the impending demise of her after school program and what I really should be worrying about is the farting gym teacher. I will NEVER be able to look Coach straight in the face ever again. (For those of you Port Chester residents who I know are curious, email me and I will tell you who the percolating PE teacher is)