Lately, it's all about farts in the Pancake home, with a little bit of belching and poop thrown in for good measure. Danny talks about farting almost as much as he does about LEGOs, and that's saying a lot, believe me.
It's like he has suddenly morphed into a.....well, a....I guess it would be a prepubescent boy, which is exactly what he is.
Danny isn't content to be the only one delighting in flatulence, though. He has recruited both of his siblings--his sweet, delicate little sister and his innocent, toddler brother. He's a bad influence, that one.
Hardly a morning goes by where I don't hear Charlotte or Danny yelling, "Get your butt out of my face!" or recommending to the other, "Smell my butt!" and once after farting, Danny ordered me to do so. He was flabbergasted when I declined his invitation to smell his nether regions.
They also recently taught Tommy how to fake burp. My little two-year-old cherub will imitate a belch and proudly proclaim, "Tommy burpted! Tommy burpted!" His siblings reward him with peals of laughter, which of course only encourages him to continue.
Along with that, Danny has channeled my twin brother. He routinely sits next to me, lifting a butt cheek in my direction and letting loose a series of disgusting farts. I swear, I'm asking for a gas mask for Christmas.
If I ever want to cheer Dan up or distract him, all I have to do is talk about how much his flatulence reeks. Danny lights up, as he agrees proudly that he does indeed have stinky farts.
Most of this I can handle. After all, I'm no prude. I love some low-class bathroom humor as much as the next girl. Growing up, my siblings and I would routinely bring my mother to near-puking with our dinner table conversations.
Still, after a while, it can get a little crude. Especially when Danny calls someone a "farthead." I try to get him to cool it, to put a lid on it. And I forbid him from calling other people "farthead."
I don't think I'm making much headway, though.
Recently, Danny spent a couple hours with his 9-year-old cousin. They laughed and joked endlessly, rolling on the floor and wrestling. It was a delight to see them getting along so well. They each have a tendency towards getting a bit out of hand when they are together. Dan and T tend to rile each other up, often ending up in some trouble.
This time was different, though. We only had to redirect them a couple of times, and the boys were having a ball. Their topic of conversation was troubling to me, however. They talked of nothing but farts and poop and belches the entire afternoon.
My sister, sensing my annoyance, leaned over and said, "Patty, this is all totally age-appropriate. This is what boys do."
And I realized she was right. 8 and 9-year-old boys like to talk about farts. They are devoted to all things potty humor, as disgusting as that might be to a refined adult, such as myself. (I'm totally kidding here. I'm just as vile as Danny. Just ask Bil about all the times I gave him a dutch oven.) And that means Danny is just being a regular boy!
So, for once in Danny's life, an annoyance has popped up that has nothing to do with autism. It has nothing to do with his IEPs or whether he will ever learn those blasted word problems in math. It's not about coaxing him to cooperate with his numerous therapies, and it has nothing to do with his inability to make friends. In fact, just the opposite. Danny's love for fart jokes seems to have helped him bond with kids his age.
And that? Well, THAT makes me smile.
For more lighthearted posts, go to Sprite's Keeper's Spin Cycle. I'm willing to bet the other posts will be much more refined than mine, so rest easy. After all, there's only so much fart humor one can take in a day.