Knowing that I may lose whatever respect you may have developed for me – that is respect you’re developing for me, right? – it is possible that the time has come to expand on the note I scribbled in my notebook a month ago.
He may have moved out - and years ago - but his ability to influence remains.
The note?
“My son’s got gas.”
So small, isn’t it? A four-word sentence with more gravity, more depth, than one little sentence has a right to.
It’s not like there isn’t a warning beforehand. There’s a look on his face that I’ve come to recognize, immediately followed by a two-word precursor to a potentially life-changing event. Like the imperious command of “Scratch” – my cue to run my nails along his back until I am dismissed – there is also a far more subtle “Hey, Mom” – followed by an almost Mona-Lisa-like smile – that makes me run out of the room.
Why would a loving mother, a woman interested in what comes after “hey…” no matter who says it, go skittering out of a room as fast as possible after such a statement?
Because like I said, my son’s got gas.
Don’t get me wrong. This is not regular gas; not “whoops! sorry about that” gas; but hair-frying, clothes-wrinkling, room-clearing gas.
I hold myself responsible. Was it something I ate during pregnancy? Should I have not eaten only Mexican food, potatoes drenched in Tabasco, those little canned oranges and, so help me God, canned sardines?
Perhaps it has something to do with my weather-predicting hair? Could the ability to stenchify whole rooms be The Boy’s equivalent of my hair's ability to detect humidity?
I’ve lost your respect, haven’t I?
He may have moved out - and years ago - but his ability to influence remains.
The note?
“My son’s got gas.”
So small, isn’t it? A four-word sentence with more gravity, more depth, than one little sentence has a right to.
It’s not like there isn’t a warning beforehand. There’s a look on his face that I’ve come to recognize, immediately followed by a two-word precursor to a potentially life-changing event. Like the imperious command of “Scratch” – my cue to run my nails along his back until I am dismissed – there is also a far more subtle “Hey, Mom” – followed by an almost Mona-Lisa-like smile – that makes me run out of the room.
Why would a loving mother, a woman interested in what comes after “hey…” no matter who says it, go skittering out of a room as fast as possible after such a statement?
Because like I said, my son’s got gas.
Don’t get me wrong. This is not regular gas; not “whoops! sorry about that” gas; but hair-frying, clothes-wrinkling, room-clearing gas.
I hold myself responsible. Was it something I ate during pregnancy? Should I have not eaten only Mexican food, potatoes drenched in Tabasco, those little canned oranges and, so help me God, canned sardines?
Perhaps it has something to do with my weather-predicting hair? Could the ability to stenchify whole rooms be The Boy’s equivalent of my hair's ability to detect humidity?
I’ve lost your respect, haven’t I?
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18 comments:
Is he a vegetarian?
While my son was off meat he was a methane machine.
you haven't made me lose respect for you, sweetpea, but you damn sure made me spit coffee! ;) xoxoxoxo
I have not lost respect, but stand with you in solidarity. I have one who I swear had something die inside of him. I have never seen anything like it. He not only clears a room, he clears the outdoor stands of spectators at a high school soccer game. It's a problem. I just pray he doesn't do it at school.
Boys!! No loss of respect, just sympathy . . .
Hari OM
Get him off the onions. They's deadly. No one has to suffer as long as I stay off the onions... YAM xx
Feed him oatmeal and prunes, keep him away from pop and cabbage and beer and always carry a can of febreeze air freshener with you lol.
Ugh. I feel your pain.
It's a Boy thing, isn't it?
I have to make him leave the room and open all the window. I wonder what died up there....
Does you son read this? :)
Perhaps a food sensitivity or allergy? They don't all manifest in the same ways.
No lost respect here. It gives you street cred.
Solidarity.
Which may be a poor choice of words. We had a cat whose emissions could strip paint. I am sure that it was a great deal more than 'hot air'.
Whoa, that is me and I wish my mama felt bad.
It's definitely a Boy Thing.
One of my earliest TV memories is Joey Bishop on Hollywood Squares. He said "I've got enough gas to take us all to Cleveland."
Sounds like you could get a free trip to Ohio.
Cheer up, in a few more years, you may be able to clear the room yourself! One of the hazards of aging, I've learned!
Pearl--Eva is right. The older I get, the worse my gas (sometimes) is. When I'm teaching, if it's bad, I'll let loose with a bomb and then quickly move to another part of the classroom. My 3rd graders blame each other, not even suspecting me, since I rapidly left the scene of the crime...
I've read somewhere that if a body has enough calcium intake the flatulence is reduced. (It won't happen overnight, but it will happen)
Something to think about?
My ex could clear rooms too, with no warning at all.
My kid passed deadly gas as we drove all the way to California. As my brother used to say, " pull my finger."
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