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?