There are certain taboo subjects that are simply unladylike to discuss in public. I realize that what I’m about to tell you is, as my husband puts it, inappropriate and way too personal. I also think some of you might find it juvenile, and that’s all right by me. I know you will read this story with all the sophisticated judgment of a New Yorker cartoonist and congratulate yourself for not being so sophomoric in your humor as to find something like this amusing. But deep down, in the ugly places you don’t like to talk about, I hope that you too will laugh when all is said and done, even if you won’t admit it. Because no matter how grown up you think you are, there are certain things that you will never outgrow. Even my saint of a mother laughed when I told her about a news story from Fort Wayne , Indiana
That’s why I think it’s okay to tell you my story.
It all began in early August of 2007. I went to bed with an unsettled stomach after a dinner of spicy Spanish rice and sausage and, on top of that, ice cream for dessert. The pain in my chest was unlike anything I’d ever experienced and around in the morning I made my husband drive me to the ER, certain that I was having a heart attack. When I got to the hospital, I had to wait for a good two hours to be seen and by that time the searing pain in my chest subsided. I was pretty embarrassed. It was suggested that I had a gall bladder attack and I needed to follow up with my doctor to have it removed.
A few weeks later I was preparing for my surgery. My doctor gave me specific instructions to take a pregnancy test before the big day since my husband and I were not being very responsible at the time. Wanting to be a good patient, I took three. They were all negative. The day of surgery I arrived to pre-op, put on the hospital gown and the little paper shoes, and peed in a cup. The nurse drew a few drops of blood and my husband and I were led to a room to wait to be carted up to surgery. The nurse that drew my blood poked her head in our room. She withdrew. She poked her head in again and asked, “Is this your husband?” “Yeah,” I said. She left. She came back in a third time. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?” “No way,” I said. “I took three tests and they were all negative.” “Oh,” she said, “Cause you’re pregnant.”
And that’s how I found out I was pregnant. I was thrilled to be carrying a baby but not so thrilled that I had to keep my diseased and stone-filled gall bladder. It made my pregnancy a real pain, literally. I couldn’t eat anything and because I couldn’t eat anything, I wanted to eat everything. The only foods that didn’t make me sick were carbs, so I ate them by the barrelful. I was cranky and hormonal and it sucked big time, especially as the baby grew and began suffocating me. I could’ve sworn that he was not growing in my uterus but in my lungs. It felt like he was sitting right under my chin (or chins, by that time). I was miserable.
A few months after having the baby I rescheduled my surgery. This time I was going to make sure that I would not be pregnant and so I had a “hands off” policy with my husband starting about a month before the surgery was scheduled. No way Jose, not going through that again. All went well and my stupid gall bladder was successfully removed. I was promised that in a few weeks all would return to normal and I would need to follow up with the doctor, just in case. Little did I know that just because one’s gall bladder is removed that it does not mean one can just simply begin eating normally, or that one’s digestive system will ever be the same again. Don’t let me scare you. If your doctor suggests to you to get your gall bladder removed don’t be stupid, get it removed. But I’ll tell you the truth, it took my stomach a good year to feel right again and my body still can’t properly digest certain foods. Fried foods slide right through me. And anything with fiber, well, I can just forget about going out in public for a few days. The truth is that having your gall bladder removed leaves you vulnerable to two very gross things that us ladies never like to mention, diarrhea and gas.
This brings me to the crux of my story. I still can’t believe I’m telling you this. Here, have a laugh, on me.
A few days ago, ready to tackle step one of potty training, I decided to get my son hyped up about going to the store and picking out stickers and big boy underwear. We first went to McDonald’s for a nice “buttering up” lunch. Instead of getting something healthy that would’ve gone over better with my stomach, I choose some nuggets and fries. And I can't have chicken nuggets without hot mustard. We ate lunch and had a great time. My son was on his best behavior and seemed to appreciate the novelty of just us two eating inside the restaurant, instead of the usual driving through and taking it home. It was a good time. When we were finished, we headed out to our neighborhood Target, which is currently being renovated. The big banner promised they were “open during remodeling” so we went in, in search of the perfect bribes of stickers and underwear and a few other essential household items. It took longer than I had expected to find light bulbs, which we had run out of at home, and I found myself wandering around the store for a good twenty minutes. Finally, I found the light bulb aisle. I turned down the aisle and that’s when it hit me. It hit me with a flush to my face. I knew what was coming. There was a lady at the end of the light bulb aisle taking her sweet time, being a good consumer and comparing the length and prices of extension cords. While I stared at the light bulbs and tried to concentrate on not doing it, I realized that my only hope of escaping certain humiliation was to move to the next aisle and pray to God that no one was there. I turned the corner and two people were standing there looking at batteries. I squeezed my cheeks as tightly as I could, but those of you who’ve ever been in this situation know that holding in gas only makes it worse and creates an even weirder sound when it finally does escape. And that’s exactly what happened. Heading back into the light bulb aisle I thought, just grab them and go, just grab them and go, but as soon as I turned the corner, out came the strangest sounding toot I’ve ever passed. It was a sort of high pitched drum roll. And of course, it stunk. And that’s when I did something that I’m both ashamed of and quite proud of. I totally blamed my son. I said, “Buddy, did you toot?”
My son laughs anytime he hears a toot sound. He’s a boy. He also likes the word “toot.” Somebody who doesn’t know my standards taught him the other word for toot, and that day I found out two things. One, that my son says the “f” word (f-a-r-t) and thinks that it too is hilarious. Two, that he is so gullible he will take the blame for anything I accuse him of doing. He said with confused pronouns, “My farted!” He said it about ten more times and laughed hysterically as we picked up the light bulbs and high tailed it out of there. I caught the look on the lady’s face. She half smiled. I have to wonder if she knew that it wasn’t true. If she knew that it was I who passed the gas and then passed the blame onto my innocent son, who heartily accepted it and was proud to claim it as his own. I said to him later, “No buddy, we call it a ‘toot.’’ As if calling it something cute and seemingly more proper would cancel out the gross act for which he was willing to take the fall.
I dare you to tell me with a straight face that you’ve never tooted and then blamed someone else for it. I dare you to tell me that some part of my story does not ring true in your life. And then I will prove to you that thousands of people have already voted for the Harry Baals Government Building
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