This is my daughter. She's the creative one and the wild one. She's the one who would explode from the goofiness which builds up inside her every day at school if she couldn't express her goofiness all evening long at home. (Lawd, help her mama, the nervewracked woman who is a quiet smartass!)
Yes, this is my daughter, the artist and blogaholic who rather innocently requested that I take this picture and post it in my blog. Let me give you some background. Unlike lots of people in this day and age, I cannot say the word FART unless I whisper it. All the times my dad let rip with noisy ones when I was a kid, he never said, "Oops, excuse me. I farted." My mother would've cut him the withering glance reserved for those who let curse words slip from their lips. When Pop perfumed the air, it was occasionally "cutting the cheese," rarely "pooting," and most often "letting one." Given all this, plus the educational tips gradeschoolers always share with one another about such things, I knew of the word "fart," but I sincerely thought it must be the dreaded "F-word."
Okay, okay, you laugh. I must remind you, though, that I grew up in the seventies and early eighties in a fairly sheltered rural area. Gradeschoolers didn't say the F-word back then. Well, maybe the really, really, reaaaaaaaaaaaallllly bad kids said it, but I knew doing what they did would get me in big trouble. My fingers are itching to tell you what constituted really, really, reaaaaaaaaaaallly bad behavior in that little world, but I've recently friended some people on Facebook who went to school with me. If I tell you "really, really, reaaaaaaaaaaaaallly bad" in second grade involved surrepticiously shaking up your soda can and then innocently asking your teacher to open it for you, then some of those people might see this and know who did the bad deed. If I tell you "really, really, reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallly bad" in eighth grade (not my class, but one year older) involved aluminum foil wrapped cans masquerading as soda cans for lunch when they were really beer cans, then those same people would remember. . .and that was "really, really, reaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllly some serious bad" that most of us would never even have dreamed necessary to try, let alone actually doing it. Anyway, the point is that while those kids might have said fart without fearing for their lives, I didn't. While those kids probably knew the F-word, even if they didn't repeat it, I must have been in junior high before I realized the F-word was not FART.
My kids know all this. (They also know that repeating any Mommy curse words is a no-no...and, yes, I've spent my adult life making up for lost time by using the real F-word much too liberally.) They think it is hilarious to trick me into saying FART or to get away with saying FART in front of me or to watch my face watch for their reactions when someone else says FART. I can guarantee you that Kate knew I wouldn't ask her if she intended for this picture to look as if Bouncing Bobby is bouncing along on FART power. The crafty little booger knew I wouldn't want to have to say FART.
Fast forward to tonight, when I have time to honor her request and put her picture on my blog. I crop the picture, darken it a little bit because I always get washed out looking flash pictures inside the house, and load the image onto my blog. James walks by my desk, looks over my shoulder, and bursts out laughing as he says, "Look at Bouncing Bobby farting!!"
LOL, whaddya gonna do? I guess they could have worse phrases escaping their lips :)