Because I hate the word fart and because my teenagers are too cool to use the word toot, my husband has created the term butt talk to refer to all things gaseous.
My husband and I had climbed into bed, confident that our three-year-old was fast asleep. Just as I settled into my perfect sleeping position, I heard, “Mommy . . . Mommy . . .,” from across the hall. Dragging myself up, I made the well-worn trek to my daughter’s room.
“Will you sleep with me, Mommy?”
Inside I am screaming, “Noooooooo,” but I take a deep breath and snuggle in next to her. I brush her bangs from her eyes and reach over to rub her back.
“My room stinks,” she said.
“Hmmm,” I reply, because every mother of a toddler knows that you can’t engage a three-year-old in conversation if you are trying to count the minutes until they fall back asleep.
“Yes,” she said. “It really stinks! Daddy leaves his butt talk everywhere!”