So my daughters are jumping on their beds the other night. Yeah, I know, probably not a good idea to allow them to jump on their beds, right? No judgment! Resist the temptation of thinking I’m some horrible parent because I let them do this. Their beds are low to the ground and I’m through battling them over it, since they constantly do it regardless of threats or actual punishment, so each night they get five parentally-monitored jumps before lights out. We’ve only had one head bump in two years of big girl beds. So far so good. Anyway, they’re jumping and giggling when all of a sudden, A stops and says, “Oh Mommy, a little poop just flew out of my butt!” She looked mortified, as this was clearly unexpected. She immediately got down from her bed and ran to the bathroom and yelled, “I thought I was farting, but some poop flew out into my panties! Mommy, what’s that called? What just happened? What is it?” I gotta admit, I was cracking up. Daddy was in Chicago, it had been a really long day already and my mind was mush. For that moment, I forgot I was talking to a five-year-old and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head. “A,” I yelled back, “don’t even worry about it, you just sharted, that’s all.” Well, D heard the word for all of one second and starts jumping wildly on her bed, shouting with sheer glee over and over again “A sharted!” “A sharted!” “A sharted!” Oy. What have I done?
There comes a time in every parent’s life when they don’t think before they speak. I was tired and annoyed and it was past bedtime and I thought I was down the home stretch with the five jumps then lights out routine coming to a close and then next thing I know, A’s got a shart in her pretty, little flower panties and bedtime is prolonged. I went into the bathroom and A is wiping her tush repeatedly. Apparently, the shart made her very uncomfortable and grossed-out. Understandably so! She looked-up and said, “Why is it called a shart?” Yikes. Ugh. Okay, okay, okay … think Poopie. How are you gonna explain your way out of this one? I couldn’t very well tell her it’s a lovely hybrid of the word “shit” and “fart.” Thankfully, I was quicker on my feet the second go around and I said, “It’s a combination of the words “shtinky and fart.” “Oh,” she smiled, “That’s funny. Have you or Daddy ever sharted?” I’m dying inside of course. It’s hilarious. But at least she bought it. I wanted to make her feel better and realize that even grown-ups lose control of their bowels from time to time so I said, “Absolutely honey. I’ve sharted before, and Daddy, well he sharts all the time. He’s extra shtinky.” I couldn’t resist. It was too fun at this point. Meanwhile, D is still cracking up repeating her new shart mantra in the other room. Great, I thought to myself, now I can take the blame as worst mother of the year when my precious four-year-old daughter shows-up at preschool tomorrow and teaches all the other little kids how to say “shart.” I’m sure all the other parents will really appreciate my introducing this scatological gem into their toddler’s lexicons. Wait to go, Mommy.
After the little jumping incident was “wiped-away” and, er, explained, the girls got into bed and peace and calm were restored. I read them another book to ensure quietness and then they went to bed. Or so I thought. All was quiet for about fifteen minutes. I was downstairs ready to indulge in my weekly crack (aka The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills—a reality show that no doubt lessens my intelligence quotient, but I still crave nonetheless) when I hear chanting coming from upstairs. Yep, you guessed it. D was at it again. “A sharted!” “A sharted!” It went on and on. I went up there and said quite sternly in my most intimidating voice that it was way past bedtime and if they wanted to have their scheduled playdate at the park with their pals the following day (this mild winter has been amazing!!!) then they’d better pipe down, close their eyes and fall asleep. This did the trick and the chanting ceased immediately. And, thankfully, did not occur for the remainder of the night. But when I went downstairs, it really got me thinking: Am I so horrible that I taught my kids a naughty word? Is this totally inexcusable? I mean, what kind of a mom am I? Shouldn’t I have just said it’s poop? A said she thought she was just passing gas, so I go ahead and tell it like it is and now I’m having honesty remorse (again). I should’ve made something up. But I didn’t. And now I’m torturing myself over it and worrying that the girls will pass this lovely word onto to their friends.
