Fart Girl

Today, my four year old son and I made a date for post-quiet time.  He and I were going to go on an adventure of Peter Pan-like proportions.  We were going to go to the pool.  Alone.  Just us two.

My son is a fish.  He was crazy excited.  He talked the entire way there.  “Mommy, during quiet time, I made beautiful drawings for you and I watched Daddy on the computer by standing up on my tip toes and looking out the window and I think my brother is still asleep also what are salamanders to newts and how come the salamanders came out after the rain when we were hiking?  You have to be very careful not to step on the salamanders because they are so small and tiny and hide under big leaves and we are very big to them and could kill them with our feet, right?”

We made are way through the locker room (“Mommy, why do we have to take a shower before we get in the pool and why do we have to wear our flip flops in the shower I want to take my shoes off and go get wet in the pool come on, ok?”) and out to the pool area.  He jumped right in.  I took my time adjusting to the cooler-than-I’d-hoped-for-temperature of the water.  We played.  He swam.  I took some pictures.

And then…he made a friend.  Fart Girl.  Fart Girl is eight.  And she thinks it is high-larious to make farting noises with her mouth against her wet elbow crease.  She can also burp on command.

My son chose to forgo our alone time together to play with Fart Girl.  And Fart Girl sucks.

Fart Girl’s dad was sitting in the shade on his fucking Blackberry while I made sure she didn’t murder my child with her pool noodle and/or bad breath.  And then she had the audacity to make fun of my son’s name.

“How’d he know my name?”  She asked me.

“What’s your name?”  I answered.

“Morgan.”

“He said Mommy.  Not Morgan.  His name is Sydney.”

“Sydney?”  Fart Girl giggled.  “Sydney?!  Like a girl?”  She burst out laughing and burping.  Simultaneously.

“Umm, no.  Like a boy.  It was a boy’s name first.  But now, anyone can be called Sydney, Morgan.”  Mature, I know.  But who the hell is a Morgan to tell my Sydney he has a chick name?  Didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest though.  He was happy to play with Fart Girl.

As long as I was close by.  Close enough to protect him from her splashy, crappy farts.  But I can’t say he was disappointed when she left him to play with big boys that were turning the kiddie pool into “a whirlpool vacuous vortex.”  Their words.  Not mine.

We stayed behind.  Alone.  Just us two.  And enjoyed the shit* out of our date.

*Totally couldn’t help myself.  Please excuse.

2 Responses to Fart Girl
  1. Liz
    August 15, 2010 | 10:57 am

    There are ages and stages I’m not looking forward to, and there’s something about the 8-10 year olds that is on that list. We went to a baseball game last night and there were a bunch of grade-school boys behind us being, well, boys. All they could talk about was hitting each other, etc. And there was Daniel, turned around in his seat, watching them. Hrmph.

  2. Colleen
    August 16, 2010 | 8:30 pm

    I think I would have told Morgan that her name is a boys name on one of the most popular soap operas out there. Because I’m super mature like that.

    I absolutely can not stand when parents bring their kids to the pool and then ignore them, leaving their kids to want to jump on and play with me and my kids and OMG I DO NOT want to entertain YOUR children at the effing pool. (Yes, that was a run-on sentence.) Also I hate when said unsupervised children take my kids effing pool toys from their hands and put them in their effing little mouths and CHEW ONE THEM. (That has happened more than five times. I kid you not.)

    I think I have pool issues. Hmmm…

    Yay for one-on-one time! And the stream of questions and random statements? I love it. We get that too and sometimes my ears bleed and sometimes it makes me laugh. :)

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