Poot

Dash spent the better part of yesterday squeezing every last bit of air from his body out through his asshole. Seriously, it smelled like a public toilet and sounded like a family of cranky ducks had moved in with us. (Are you enjoying this post so far? You come here for the klassy, right?)

So, yesterday evening, after a particularly egregious toot, I walked in to the living room to make sure he hadn't turned himself inside out. He was fine. He was drawing:

Mama: Oh! I love your picture, Dashy. What is it?

Dash: It's my fart.

He then proceeded to narrate for me a very long and detailed story of his superhero fart and how it flies around the world to get the bad guys.

I thought about handing him some markers and asking him to illustrate his fart in color.

In the end, I thought better if it.