and then I saw Emily's comment and had to respond.
"No, you absolutely may not buy/build/acquire a police box. If you do, I am going to have to listen to my husband constantly complaining “Why can’t I have a police box for my study? Gretchen has a police box, but I don’t have one.” I will be forced to come to your house and arm your children and mine with sledgehammers (along with protective clothing and safety goggles) while you are out on a date night. I really mean it."
See, Emily's husband and I go WAAAAY back. Pre-dating infancy, really. My parents were friends with his parents before they even knew each other.
I am now, more motivated than ever to have a TARDIS for one reason and one reason only: Brendan does NOT have one. Bwahahahahahaha!
It isn't that I want to make Emily (more) nuts, but that my entire childhood was spent wishing we had cool gadgets and toys like Brendan did. Every year we'd go five hundred miles to see them, have an incredible time, then spend the entire five hundred mile drive home begging our parents for every cool new thing they had acquired in the previous 12 months.
This is my chance to beat them.
That, and if you bring sledge hammers (and protective clothing and safety goggles) for our date night that means that, well, we got a date night. How cool would that be? Where's the threat in that?
Back to fart-stealing.
On Thursday morning, Charlie kept grabbing my hand and taking me to take him to the potty. Every time, I'd take off his diaper, and he'd back towards the little potty seat and proudly sit down.
Then we'd sit. He'd smile. He'd clap. He'd giggle. But you know what he wouldn't do? Yeah, that's right: potty.
The third time he did it, he let out about three rapid-fire farts. His face was filled with delight and he jumped up to see his masterpiece, only to be broken-hearted at the sight of the empty bucket. He looked at me in bewilderment, then looked at the potty and pointed, grunting his UHHH? with a sad little face. Then he looked back at me with pleading eyes that said, "Mommy, where did it go? Where is it mommy?" Then again with the chubby finger pointing and the UHHH?
About the third time he UHHH?ed at me, he began pointing that finger at me, and began throwing accusations around with his ferocious UHHH!
Charlie, you are a boy. You were supposed to be born with an inherent knowledge of farts. I'm not going to explain it to you.