My hubby, if he knows anything, it’s how to put down the Diet Coke. To the tune of 24 stomach-eating cans a week. As a result, it’s not uncommon for him to tear the house off its moors with one of his primevil burps. It happens so often, in fact, that our 2 year-old son has taken to acknowledging these sonic acts of gastrointestinal anarchy by simply saying, “Nice.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh (it is funny, no?) or to be appalled that Little Lord Fauntleroy isn’t summoning the proper answer, as so clearly spelled out in the lift-the-flap book on manners I so responsibly bought for him at T.J. Maxx. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Why not teach your brute of a HUSBAND some manners?” Well, folks, that train has left the station. At this point in my life, I only take on the battles I know I can win.
All strategy aside, I see that I am losing ground as I write. It’s becoming clear that my son has inheirited this debilitating crudeness gene. The other night, the little guy farted. Respectable mother that I am, I said, “Now what do you say?” He replied, “Ta-daaaaa!” Ta-da, indeed.