The Play Date...G-L-O-R-I-A...

We were in the bathroom and she was looking at herself in the mirror.
Isobel: "Daddy, I have one of those things."
Daddy: "One of what things?"
Isobel: "One of those little red things that show up on your face and then go away."
Daddy: "A zit?"
Isobel: " That's it. You have one too, right there."
Daddy: "Do you mean the red marks on my face? Those aren't zits, that's really dry skin."
Isobel: "No, that right there."(pointing)
Daddy: "That's not a zit, that's a mole. It won't ever go away."
Isobel: "Can I see?" (touching it with her finger and quickly pulling her hand away)
Daddy: "What?"
Isobel: "Touching that made me feel kinda weird. Like weird in my body." (Touching her sides)
Daddy: "Oh yeah?"
Isobel: "Hey Daddy, I can feel my lungs!"


It's good to see your children developing relationships with people. Good to watch them form friendships that may last a lifetime, or might peter out and disappear by the end of the school year. The Boy has, on one hand, a friend who spent the night and humped him every chance he got. He has not been spoken of by anyone in the house since then. But he has another friend with whom he spent the entire day, literally. Mrs. Narrator dropped him off at 9:00 a.m and he came wandering back home around six that night...all day video games and not a single mention of humping...it is a different dynamic. It's good to watch it unfold, to see two kids interacting on more or less the same level.
Izzy too, has two very different friends. Although the three of them all get along, there is a different dynamic that runs between the three of them. They are both in Izzy's class at school but there is definitely a difference in the way they play and the way Izzy acts toward them. I don't want to say one child is smarter or better than the other, because that isn't what I mean but one friend is less assertive than the other and so Izzy tends to be the boss at any given time when they play. Izzy suggest the games and calls all the shots. Her friend knows this and accepts it.
The other friend however, is more on an equal playing field with Izzy. She may not be in charge but she is also not about to back down when it comes to getting what she wants...It was this friend that came over for a play date...
The recurring theme seemed to be 'little girls are worse than little boys, who knew?'
Picture if you will, the Tasmanian devil. A swirling tornado of destruction with the odd hand or foot poking out of it. Now add giggling and glitter erupting from the tornado and that about sums up the Saturday of the play date.
Izzy's friend arrived in the afternoon and first off, they are remarkably similar in appearance and build. Both very cute, dirty-blond haired, five year old girls. They are also very similar in attitude and there seems to be a struggle just below the surface as to who will ultimately decide the way the playing will go.
When The Boy had his friend over, I noticed they got down to business right away. They were playing video games and it was going to commence as soon as they got in the house. They would take a break at supper time at which point gaming would commence anew and they would play until such time as they tired of it or another notion of activity struck them as interesting and fun.
There was no discernible direction of play with the girls. Not that that sort of of thing matters, play shouldn't have any directives but it was interesting to watch. For most of the first hour the two of them were together, it was running from room to room and giggling and squealing and tittering and running more and laughing and squealing and loud and giggling and that was so high pitched it's a good thing we haven't got a dog and running and laughing. They were having fun so who am I to say anything?
Soon, out came the make-up box and the mirror. At last they were starting to act like I though little girls should act. Make-up and Barbies and tea parties, that sort of thing. Dad's are mostly clueless about the habits of their children. I am apparently, no exception. Now Izzy has been playing with and enjoying make up for quite sometime but her make up tastes have been influenced by Kiss, Alice Cooper and several Norwegian Black Metal Bands. To say that she is unique in what she considers excellent make-up is a bit of an understatement.
When her friend came over to Mrs. Narrator and Me to show off her new make over, she said "I feel like I don't look good." and off they giggled to look in the bathroom mirror. Shortly there after, out came the make up remover wipes and they were on to round two. Izzy tried to be a bit more conservative and a little less 'Izzy' when she put her friend's make-up on for a second time and everyone seemed happy with the results.
"Not everyone has the same tastes in make-up." I remember saying to no one in particular. (not that either of the girls cared that words were escaping my mouth)
"If you want to run with this gang," said Mrs. Narrator half under her breath, "you need to let all of that shit go."...indeed.
The make-up went away as quickly as it came out and they were on to something else. They started and finished activity after activity with reckless abandon. I couldn't get my head around it but made this was some sort of natural, primitive training for multi-tasking I was witnessing. Much the same way that boys wrestle and tussle as a primitive practice for hunting. (no really, that's why they do it)
I feel that I need to state for the record, that when The Boy had a sleep over, the worst mess I cleaned up was the pile of blankets in his bedroom after the two of them got the fear and moved upstairs in the middle of the night. Little girls are worse than little boys, who knew? They may have have been practicing their multi-taking skills by moving from toy to toy and game to game but cleaning was not one of the skills they seemed to be interested in honing. At all.
How in the Hell are two five year old girls capable of making a mess on that large a scale? Nagasaki would have taken less time to sort out than the catastrophic fail of a bed room that I walked into. Clothes everywhere, dress up clothes, regular clothes, Izzy's clothes, her friend's clothes(what exactly they were doing, I can't be certain) Barbie and Ken in positions that suggested they were playing twister with Barbie's horse. I felt myself beginning to boil just looking at the mess but what was I going to do, blow my stack in front of her friend? Of course not. I but my tongue, swallowed my pride and put Barbie and Ken and the contorted horse back into the appropriate drawer.
I watched Izzy go through a change that day. her friend was not so easily influenced as some of the others and so she needed to take somebody else's feelings and needs into consideration if she wanted the play to continue. It was fun to watch and it is what friendship is a really about, the ballet of give and take that we all go through.
At one point, they were playing at being terrified and chased by ghosts. They would run from room to room, screaming and hiding behind bits of furniture until the evil was gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Izzy putting her hands together in a sort of prayer. Her friend was doing the same. "Dear Jesus," Izzy began. "Dear, dear Jesus, we are scared and if you just get us out of this we will be good and do nothing but good things forever. Bless me and you, the end."
"The end." her friend echoed.
Isobel looked at me, rolled her eyes and smiled...OK so maybe not THAT much give and take.




Isobel has had friends for as long as any of us can remember. Her thronging masses, her disciples, her underlings. It was only after seeing Despicable Me that I started calling them her minions. They are the nameless horde...until now.
She was wandering around the other day using one of the myriad remotes we have around here (functional and non-functional alike!) as a cell phone. She has done this for as long as we can remember too. Talking to someone in her usual pleasant manner.
"Look, I'm way too busy to do that. No you do it. No YOU do it. What did I give you the job for if you can't do it?"
She went on like this for a while and she was beginning to get hot under the collar. Slamming the door to the toy cupboard and holding the phone away from her ear, like someone would do when someone on the other end is prattling on and on.(Don't act like you don't know what I mean)
And then it happened...
"If you aren't going to do it, you can just go home." (silence as though listening to the other person speak)
"Dammit Gloria, just get it done."
Wait what? Who?
"Who is Gloria?" I asked.
She just smiled a kind of smile that defies description. That 'Cat who ate the Canary' kind of smile.
"Isobel, who is Gloria?" I asked once more.
She let out a long slow breath and said, "Someone who won't have a job soon."
With that she dropped the remote/cell phone and walked out of the room.
Well at least we got to know her name before she was banished...This is an important step for Izzy, she'll now have somebody to finger when her room looks like a disaster.
"I told Gloria to clean up n there but you just can't get good help anymore can you?"

Alternate sleeping arrangements...A Father's love...

She was writing something , she was writing it in the margins of a Dr. Seuss book and she was deep in thought as she wrote it. I glanced over her shoulder to see what she was up to.
Isobel: "Daddy, can you read what this says?"
Daddy: (It read Novebre the Nith) "It says November the Ninth."
Isobel : "How do you know it says November the ninth?"
Daddy: "Lucky guess."
Isobel: It is a good guess. That's what it says, November the Ninth."
Daddy: "That's very good Pick. Except today is November the 21. You know that, right?"
Isobel: "Yes. I was just practicing. (Whispering to herself) The 21st...who the hell made it the 21st?"

We are all animals...mammals if you must be specific. We are all still cavemen inside and sometimes that cavemen bubbles to the surface and claws and grunts his way out. I know these things, I work the night shift...I am a caveman at the best of times. You can seen example of this sort of throw back behaviour all over society. Football games, players and fans alike posturing and puffing their chests in an effort to intimidate one another. Hockey, rugby, roller derby...the rituals and rites displayed are nothing short of primitive.
But if you want to see true primal behaviour, there is no finer example than the pre-teen boys sleep over...yes friends, The Boy had a sleep over this past weekend. Not his first but the first premeditated one, rather than the situations that arise when parents go visiting and are worn down to the nub by the constant whine of children begging to spend the night with their friends. No, this was a bonafide event.
I was allowed one sleep over that I can remember...(friends coming over and passing out does not count) I understand why....funny that...I picked up The Boy and his guest from the sitter's and prepared for a night of merriment. Ah yes, the Loud Brothers reunited!
I have to say first off, that I have never doubted that The Boy was intelligent. After the two of them got into the house, I am convinced that not only is The Boy smart enough to handle himself in nearly any situation (and rise to the top and control the situation to boot) but that his new found BFF is a bit of a block head...maybe that is a bit harsh...perhaps evolutionary throw back is a better more pc way to put things. To be fair, The Boy's over night guest is younger than The Boy is and is clearly NOT a leader. But like my Grandmother used to say, the world needs ditch diggers too.
And here is where it gets interesting...primitive. Put two adolescent boys together and watch what happens,watch the dynamic that begins to weed itself in. The Boy was instantly the front runner in the dominance of the situation but it didn't stop his friend from trying to change all that.
And so emerged the worst trait in all primates trying to establish themselves as the dominant one...when The Boy turned his back, (figuring he had one the day and proclaimed himself alpha male) his friend humped him. It's not a sex thing or any other weirdness anyone may be thinking, it is an evolutionary leftover that we are all capable of. Watch dogs and apes and ...just about any mammal. If you want to be the boss, you hump. If the humpee submits, the humper wins and is the boss. If there is no submission, there is usually some sort of tussle and the whole thing starts over again.
"Dude, stop." was The Boy's way of saying he wasn't going to submit any time soon. He didn't and eventually the humping and tussling calmed down to patient guidance from The Boy and awkward and unsure looks from his friend. Though I did hear "Dude, stop" continue on for almost the rest of the night. I guess the drive to be the lead dog never really goes away. I was not a humper but I had friends who were and one of them was the one friend who was allowed to sleep over that one time...funny that...
Bedtime came and it had been predetermined they would sleep on the floor in the living room. Camping style, without all that pesky nature and fresh air to ruin things. Predictably, there was much tittering and giggling and talking and whispering and "Dude, stop." And even a few "Be QUIET!"s courtesy of Mrs. Narrator. Eventually all was calm and everybody went to sleep.
Until of course, the mysterious beast that roams the rooms of our house decided to again surface when everyone is in their beds and scare the living jesus out of the two boys camping downstairs. They came upstairs to sleep near the safety of the sleeping parents(the only natural defense against said beast) The Boy slept in his own bed with his friend nesting on a pile of blankets set up on the floor beside him...which is what I had suggested they do in the first place...funny that...
After making sure the boys were settled and safe, (and at least attempting to go to sleep) Mrs. Narrator whispered "How many sleep overs do we figure we have to have?" Could have been worse, they could have been really primitive and attempted to dance by the flames erupting from the jiffy pop container that was burning on the stove, like something out of Quest for Fire. We never got to have jiffy pop after my sleep over...funny that...
By now I was more or less quite awake and went downstairs to see if there was any truth to the noises in the kitchen...We do have mice, though I could see no evidence of any that night. I had to get up early and so decided I may as well stay downstairs so's not to disturb anyone when I got up. Which is what I had suggested all along...funny that...


Story time is fast becoming my favourite time of the day. It used to be that I would read the stories and Izzy would fall asleep beside me. Sometimes I would smell her, drinking in the sweet new kid's smell. Best after a bath mind you. (everyone who has kids know what I am talking about) or other times I would just stare for a while and watch her sleep, marvelling at this beautiful, peaceful little life lying beside me.
Now, with school for her and night shift for me, she does the reading and I usually end up doing the sleeping. Oh there is still some smelling in the room but between the two of us, there's not a lot of sweet anymore.
The other night, we had finished our story and I was getting up to go. I tucked her in and bent low to give her a kiss. She turned her head abruptly.
"Gimme a kiss," I said.
A look of deep thought crossed her face and she looked up at me.
"Yeah so...good luck with that kiss thing. Good-night." she said.
Warms your heart, doesn't it...

Where's the Cat?...Fear of A Brown Planet...

We were upstairs, she was colouring pictures and I was learning new pipe tunes. I'm not certain how it came about but the topic turned to favourite words.
Isobel: "Daddy, what's your favourite word?"
Daddy: "Umm...Isobel. My favourite word is Isobel."
Isobel: "Really?"
Daddy: "Sure, why not? Some would say that Isobel is a name and can't be used like that but I don't care."
Isobel: "What about a different word?"
Daddy: "I don't really have one, then. What's your favourite word, Pick?"
Isobel: "Hell. No, wait...Damn. No,...Shit. Definitely Shit."
Daddy: "Shit, not Shite?"
Isobel: "No, that's Scottish. My mouth hurts when speak Scottish. Only sometimes when I say Shite, it doesn't hurt."
Daddy: "Oh yeah, like when?"
Isobel: "Like when you practice bagpipes."
Daddy: "Huh?"
Isobel: "It sounds like Shite when you play your chanter."


I remember the drummer of one of the bands I played with speaking fondly of his dog. 'Clancy', a Scottish terrier and his very best friend. He told me of how they were all but attached at the hip and that wherever he went, Clancy would go too. For many years it was like this, Clancy would be the first thing he saw when he woke up and the last thing he saw before he went to bed.
Then one day he arrived home from school to be met at the door by his father who exclaimed,
"Don't bother looking for Clancy, he ain't here."
We had many pets growing up. Mostly cats and dogs and we loved them all and in spite of that, they all died. Insensitive bastards. They tell you that having pets is a good way for your children to learn the realities of life...that we are born, we live a while and then we die. Stuff and nonsense...If it teaches your children anything, it's that if you pour your heart and soul into loving something, it still gets old and you take it to the doctor and it doesn't get to come home...well, that's what it teaches your kids anyway...that message was completely lost on me and therefore on my offspring as well.
There are two pets that we had that I remember very well, I remember their deaths equally well. It's funny the things that seem to have little meaning at the time, beyond what's on the surface, that creep back up years later.
We had a cat called Cocoa. I say we but he was my mother's cat and eyed the rest of us with little more than contempt. We would follow him around the house hoping he would 'allow' us to lavish him with affection and occasionally he would stop and allow a scratch on the head or a mild pat on the back. We loved him and for our trouble, he tolerated us.
He got old...very old and deaf and he would sleep for very long periods of time.(My Auntie Peggy would do the same thing and she lasted forever too) He wandered away and we looked for him for days afterward. We all figured the worst when we couldn't find him. We just figured he went outside and fell asleep and didn't wake up. The smell coming from underneath my sister's bed, told us he had not gone outside. But he was dead. There was no mistake there. My father pulled him out from under the bed ( I would have but he wouldn't let me touch it) The cat was as hard as a carp.
Everyone was quite sad around the house, hell even my father got a little misty when he spoke of burying him in the backyard. I didn't get it. It was a cat. Sure we loved it and fed it and took care of it...and then it got old and died. Get a new cat? It made perfect sense to me then as it does now.
We also had a dog...a Schnauzer called Ollie. He was a dear family pet and loyal and we loved him and he loved us back. He was tied to a pear tree, the same pear tree he had been tied to the whole of his life. This time however, a gigantic colony of yellow jackets (that had taken up residence in the roof line of our house) had decided that the pear tree was a good source of food for their thronging multitude and therefore belonged to them.
I remember one of my friends running up the street screaming that my brother was trying to drown our dog with the garden hose. When I got back to my house saw that my brother was trying to drown the thousands of yellow jackets that had swarmed our dog. My mother and father both came home from work and took the dog to the vet. They came home and the dog didn't. I heard stories of the horrid noise the dog made at the vet...I can only imagine there were like the horrid noises he was making before my parents got home.
Again, everyone around the house was blubbering and bawling for days...except me. It's not to say that I wasn't upset. (I was) It's not to say that I am cold-hearted.(though I may be) It was a dog. It wasn't my father or mother, he hadn't rescued me from the well and he didn't ever bring anyone brandy during a snow storm. (as far as I am aware). He was born and he lived and he got himself stung to death by a pissy horde of yellow jackets, high on fermented pears. My father buried him in the backyard next to the cat. Life went on. We got another dog and another cat and they all lived and they all died and nobody's life was any the worse because of it.
So why maudlin stroll down memory lane? A couple of weeks ago saw the death of the last cat in the house. Brooklyn. She got old and sick (cancer) and peed all over anything that stood still for more than a couple of minutes. To our credit we tried to make her better but she was seventeen and vet bills ain't cheap. When we found it was more or less hopeless, we decided it would be better for her to be put down.
Mrs. Narrator was an emotional puddle pretty much after we made the decision and who can blame her...Brooklyn was her cat. Her last cat. So naturally the dirty work fell to me and I went to the vet, heard about the options and the prices or the options and after hearing that it was all fairly fruitless, I told her we wanted the cat put down.
The vet took a gigantic breath and asked if I would like to be with the cat when she was put down...I'm certain there are people that need this kind of closure. I am not one of them. I politely told her no while my brain screamed 'are you off your nut?' And that was it. I was given the carrier we brought the cat to the vet in and Isobel and I walked out.
I worried for a day or two afterward, what I might say if and when Izzy asked me about the cat. Burt the question never came. Not for almost three weeks.
"Daddy," she began.
"Uh-huh?"
"When is Brooklyn coming home, anyway?"
I scrambled to think of something to tell her, something to soften the blow a little. I have told my children for as long as I can remember that they will always get the truth from me.
"She's not coming home honey." I said.
"What do you mean, not ever?" Izzy asked.
I could hear the emotion rising in her voice and thought I had better choose my next words carefully.
"No honey, not ever. Remember when we went to the vet and we came home without Brooklyn?"
"Yes..."
"Well she was very sick and..."
"She's dead?"
"Yes Honey, she's dead."
"Thank god," she said. "I hated Brooklyn. Gimmo I liked but Brooklyn I can't stand Brooklyn."
We were putting her laundry away a little while later and I was putting blankets in the bottom of her closet.
"No Daddy, you can't put them in there."
"We can put them in there," I said. "Brooklyn isn't here anymore."
"Oh yeah," Izzy said. She won't piss all over my closet anymore."
...Anybody know of any free kittens?




It's funny to think of the things that shape your life and turn you into who you are. To this day I can't cook a grilled cheese sandwich without getting a headache but that's a story for another day. Isobel's defining moment came about a month ago and it affected her deeply...it is still affecting her.
We had a flood in the bathroom. The toilet was left un-flushed and was used a time or two too often and with too much toilet paper. The result of which, was a flood in the bathroom.
She saw me tearing across the hall to get the plunger and asked what was wrong.
"Somebody put too much toilet paper in the toilet and now it is over flowing. I have to get the plunger before the water goes all over the god-damned bathroom." I said.
In retrospect I probably shouldn't have been quite so dramatic or at least not so 'holy crap the world is going to end if I don't plunge this toilet right effing now!' about the whole ordeal.
After all was said and done Isobel came up to me and tried to wrap her hear around what had all just happened.
"So if you put too much toilet paper in the toilet, it makes a flood?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "the toilet paper blocks the hole where it all goes down and the water comes out of the toilet...along with everything else."
And that was the exact moment I altered the natural course of my child's life. From that point to this very day, regardless of the length of time she spends in there or the amount of waste she leaves behind (and from the smell of things, you would think a long haul trucker from Pocatello had been in there before my five year old princess) she will use no more than two or three sheets.
I used to think maybe it was a dainty girlie thing but the absolute look of fear that crossed her face when I suggested she could use more than just a couple of sheets told me that this was not the run of things...I don't know that she will ever get past this...maybe if she floods a toilet of her own and sees that it isn't end of the world, despite what her father may do.
At least I'll know where to go for toilet paper if the apocalypse ever comes...

Lowest Common Denominator...The Great Electric Babysitter

We were watching TV when Isobel noticed an odd smell around her.
Isobel: "Eww Daddy, did you fart?"
Daddy: "Yup. Stinks, huh?"
Isobel: "Eww, yes it does stink. But you're the gassy one, right?"
Daddy: "I guess but you don't do so bad."
Isobel: "Do so bad at what?"
Daddy: "At stinking. You could clear a room my dear"
Isobel: "Daddy, what does that even mean?"
Daddy: "It means your farts smell so bad people want to leave the room."
Isobel: "Oh...Only when I laugh do my farts stink...sometimes..."



It always amazes me the occurrences of seemingly miraculous parental behaviour in nature. For example I have seen(on nature programs) adult seals and adult penguins that can pick out their offspring from literally tens of thousands of other, virtually identical young on crowded beaches by the sound of their cries alone. It's a genetic thing I think, that imprints the sounds and smells of our young somewhere deep in the primordial atavistic regions of our brains. Those little traces of ourselves that are in our children that we instantly recognize as ourselves.
Like the way that Uglik and his Father had the same sloping ocular ridge and the way my mother and I are incessant tidy-ers. Is it any wonder then, that my offspring should have mastered 'pull my finger' at the age of five and howl with big fakey uncontrolled laughter at fart jokes?
I used to dread bath time with Izzy. Not that I wasn't capable of cleaning my child but there was always two big fears for me and inexperience fueled these fears to no end. I was always worried that I would be too rough with her while washing (especially her hair) that I might actually hurt her. This more or less resulted in a child that was wet but not a great deal cleaner than she was before her bath. I didn't wash her hair so much as just wave the shampoo bottle around her scalp and hope for the best. And combing was an exercise in futility. The first time the comb got stuck in a tangle and I pulled through, we both left the bathroom in tears and I swore I would never comb her hair again. She could be a Rastafarian and we'd both be OK with that. Conditioner and a large toothed comb has saved my daughter from a lifetime of Peter Tosh records and cannabis use.
The second thing that worried me most was that she might...crap in the tub. It's an unfounded and reckless fear and I have never heard of a child...of any age...just moving their bowels during bath time. But it could have happened. In the cold light of her being five now, it doesn't strike me as something that would have been a big deal. Hell, she could have the screaming Nestle squirts in the tub and stew in her own mahogany puddle for ten or fifteen minutes and I wouldn't bat an eye. Just empty the tub and start over...the child did barf in my mouth after all, there isn't too much worse on the gross out scale she could dish out.
But where is all this going?...Ah yes, bath time. I was indeed bath time the other day and I had finished washing her up.
"Can I play for a little bit?" she asked me.
"For a couple of minutes, anyway." I said.
"How long is that? she asked.
"I'll come and get you when it's time to get out." I said and wandered into the bedroom next door.
"Daddy!" came the shout from the bathroom.
I wasn't worried but there was some urgency in her voice.
"What's up Pick?"
"Daddy, what are these things again?"
She was referring to the water jets in the tub."
"They're water jets, they turn the bathtub into a jacuzzi."
"What's a jacuzzi?" she asked.
"You know, bubbles like a hot tub, like at Tante Charlotte's house."
"Can you turn it on?" she asked.
"No honey, the bubbles don't work." I said.
The bubbles worked just fine, I remember the last time we turned it on she lost her mind and leaped shrieking from the tub. I didn't care to wear any water this time.
"Oh," she said. "OK."
I went back to whatever I was doing in the other room and after finishing that went to get her out of the tub.
Outside the bathroom door, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of flatus leaving a submerged bottom and bursting upon a ceramic tub floor...followed by muffled giggles.
I opened the door and found her singing...and well...
"I do a little dance(turning in the tub) and then I fart in the tub (and she did) Jacuzzi!"
In my mind's eye, I can see a beach full of little girls and I can always pick out Isobel...I can't be certain if picking her out of a crowded beach full of flatulent little girls would be nearly as impressive as what the seals or penguins can do, I have no basis for comparison and National Geographic still won't return my calls...




I have never been a huge believer in the power of Television and media to corrupt our children. A lot of stuff and nonsense I say...or said. I have had to change my tune with Isobel around. I don't mean in a 'watch your god damned, oops, language' kind of way, I mean Isobel can be so completely swayed into one type of behaviour or another by things that she sees on television and on the internet.
She dances like a stripper, thanks to Ke$ha and her ilk. Dark make-up from Alice Cooper, Black Veil Brides and Dimmu Borgir ( and to a lesser degree Kiss) and a blossoming love of classic creepy, monster-y type things thanks to dear old Dad and the Universal Monsters collection.
Recently, I was sent a video called "Breaking the Barrier" that deals with that period in a relationship where you feel comfortable enough to fart in front of the other person. Only the roles are completely reversed and the girl is the one doing all of the farting, much to the dismay of the boy. Isobel watched this video with me several times and howled with laughter as much as I did.
Now since watching this video, she has been revelling in the musicality and mastery of the bottom burp, though she has been off on a couple of the things she saw. For example she smelled her own hand after cupping it around her butt, rather than jamming it in my face. The rest was classic Izzy.
She leaned into me as if to give me a kiss and whispered "I shit my pants right now."
I laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. Anybody who has seen this video will know that she was spot on. Just as the pain in my sides began to let up, she said "No seriously, I think I crapped in my pants. I need to go to the bathroom."...who says a joke can go to far?