I didn’t cook dinner tonight. I have been granted one evening with my kids on a weeknight during the school year and I could not muster up an ounce of momness to cook them dinner. My empty fridge and stolen wallet raged against that little voice screaming steamed vegetables and quiet evening around the table and said my number is no and I listened. And this is what happened.
For 9 1/2 minutes I was a kid again. Maybe it was the extra lemon in my water or the crack cocaine I swear they put in the queso dip, but I let all the innocence and freedom of being a kid flow over me and it was the most fun I’ve had as an adult in a long time.
A discussion about cheese curds became curd turds that quickly devolved to Pop Farts and then farting pop rocks. Our booth was that booth. Raucous with laughter, kids choking on their lemonade, one trying to best the other and winning every. single. time. Until we couldn’t breathe and our eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out of our heads with pure glee. At one point Delaina excused herself to go make a curd turd and we died.
My parenting style in moments like this would normally be to quickly shush the “potty talk” and deteriorating subject matter to preserve everyone else’s restaurant experience, but yet again I said my name is no to the momness. We hadn’t even touched raunchy yet. I would know. I grew up with four boys. They had mastered the fart noises by the time they could walk. They likely had discovered and tried farting pop rocks years before. And I wish to God I had paid better attention.
And though the subject matter seemed immature, the banter and quips were so purely inspired. It was a smart and organized song of potty-filled humor, and ironically enough I saw a glimpse of what my kids might be like as adults. And it was simultaneously bittersweet and heart stopping . Perhaps that’s why I let it go on longer and get just a little bit louder than it should have. It was what childhood is supposed to be, free of the heaviness of responsibility and watching creativity spread its wings using whatever means available to “let ‘er fly”. In this case, not silent and deadly funny.
We were just getting to describing the danger and glory involved in what farting pop rocks would look like when we received a short, quick rapt on the booth wall separating us from what we would soon discover were monsters stuck in adult bodies that also happen to like Mexican food.
In my whole life I’ve never been knocked at. Knocked at, don’t dare peek around the not even 6 inches of booth to make eye contact with us, just a very sinister and deliberate knock. And I’m sorry (not sorry) but we are immersed in a colorful and loud Mexican restaurant décor and ambience. If there was a more apt environment for discussing creative flatulence I’d like to find it.
Nonetheless, my momness kinda kicked in at that point (old habits die hard), but not before allowing Delaina to carry out a very important self-declared mission. To uncover just what or who was on the other side. It was dangerous mission, but she leapt out of the booth as nonchalant as that pop rock fart in church, surely glaring the neighbor occupants down to memorize every feature of what a life devoid of fun looks like. Older sister gingerly watched to make sure the little one survived then braved the same walk. The report was this: “Mom, it’s the bad guys from the Goonies, only it’s two women and a man!” Did you look into their eyes I asked? Yeah, they just stared at us. And I just waved at them, said Delaina.
What do you think their problem was?
Loudly enough to penetrate six inches, without missing a beat, “I’m pretty sure they need some pop rocks for their curd turds.”
Hey…. you…. guys!!
It is our time down here.
Do the Truffle Shuffle.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 