Saturday, February 25, 2012

Own It, Son

I try to avoid typecasting my sons over little things they do.  It is sometimes easy to over-magnify something you notice and try to predict their personality based upon it.

When I notice I’m doing this, I remind myself that my mother was convinced I had a future as an architect due to my Lego building skills.  In high school she then believed I would become a writer.  Alas, I am now neither.  Not professionally, anyway.  I do write here regularly to mixed reviews and there is an intricately detailed blueprint for a really awesome tree house out in my garage that I would start on if only I had the time...and a boom crane.


Another important reason to hold back on jumping to conclusions regarding their personalities is that my sons are notoriously inconsistent.  The same boy who eagerly runs out to the car to make multiple trips with groceries in hand will whine the following day about having to put away his toys.  The same son who patiently sits at the table through dinner one week talks back the next when told to put down the iPad and come to the table.

But there is one area where my boys have each remained consistent.  That area is flatulence.

My younger son will openly laugh and proudly announce, “I farted,” after a noise comes from the back seat of the car of his making.  In stark contrast, my oldest will wait until the rest of the vehicle’s passengers have had to roll down their windows in distress and will then blame everyone else.  He denies it so vehemently, in fact, that I began to doubt that he was the perpetrator despite the quite recognizable and rather pungent odor (we should probably take him to see a specialist as I think about it) that he produces.

Then, the other day, as we were walking into the house and I stood directly behind him, my oldest son let one fly.  It was audible.  I also felt the gust of wind on my thigh.  Furthermore, my thigh served to deflect the fumes directly into my face and I immediately detected the aforementioned distinctive smell.  Yet, when I called him out on it, he still denied it.

I can see now that he is the one I will not be able to trust for a straight answer.  When he’s away at college and tells me he’s doing fine with his grades, I had still better brace myself at the end of the semesters.  I had better start getting in the habit of measuring the content of the bottle in the liquor cabinet.  This may be the one who claims work is just too crazy and runs off to a tropical island instead of visiting his parents during the holiday season.

As I said, I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but if a man’s farts are not the window to his soul, I don’t know what is.

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