13-year old Emma and I were engaged in deep conversation about her middle school classes and curriculum. The two of us sat at the table on the screened in porch discussing a change in her class schedule which at first glance was causing her a bit of angst and worry. As we chased together what it all meant (and as I tried to read not altogether too much into the drama of the moment) I asked her if she might like to have a tutor in the subject.
“No,” she said, “I don’t need a tutor”
Six-year old Andrew interrupted, enthusiastically “Hey, remember I had a tutor!”
“You had a tutor? When did you have a tutor?” I questioned.
“Remember, remember? I had a tutor and it farts!”
“It farts?” I asked incredulously “You had a tutor that farts?” I choked back my laughter.
“Yah. Yah. Remember? At Holland I got a present? A tutor that farts. Remember?”
“I don’t remember, baby. What present? What tutor? What are you talking about?” I wiped my giggle tears from both eyes.
Andrew began to demonstrate, gesturing wildly. “Yah! I got a present at Holland and remember I opened it and it was a tutor, then you go like this” He pantomimed putting something under his bottom and sitting down hard.
Light bulb recognition went off immediately. I looked at Emma who held her head in her hands, a slight, wry smile upon her face. “He’s talking about a whoopie cushion”, she deadpanned.
“A TOOTER?” I asked Andrew “Is that what you meana tooter? Are you talking about the whoopee cushion that Kate gave you?”
“Yah!!” He shouted, then giggled at me for finally getting it. ” Remember I had a tooter and it farts”
The conversation ended in fits of giggles and guffaws. I still can’t get over it. For her part, Emma never thought it was all that funny. It just goes to show that the fart joker in me is just never, never, never going to grow up.