My daughter sometimes calls herself The Fart Machine. She’s five. Don’t tell her I told you she calls herself this. She’ll deny it. Sometimes, she’s really proud of her ability to create noise from her own body, and other days she insists that someone else did it. Like an invisible squirrel. Or Peanut (the kitty we had to find a new home for six months ago). Or Kealoha. Sometimes it IS Kealoha, but he usually owns up to it.
Yesterday morning, Simone let out an impressive fart. It positively vibrated.
“Simone!” I said. “Did you do that?”
She shook her head. Then she moved quickly away to another area (you can figure out why). She turned around and said: “I didn’t make that fart. The Adams did.”
The Adams? “Who is Adam?” I asked. “Your cousin? He lives like a half hour from here. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”
“No! Ma, the ADAMS did it.” She looked at me with that ‘how can you be so stupid’ face. “You know. ADAMS. Those tiny invisible things that have stuff swirling around them.”
“You mean atoms?”
“That’s what I said! The Atoms did it!”
“Are you telling me that you didn’t fart but atoms colliding around you made that fart?”
She looked at me like I was finally understanding something really simple. “Yes. That’s right,” she said, sounding relieved that she wouldn’t have to continue educating me. “You know, ma, your hand is made up of thousands of atoms. THOUSANDS.”
So. Okay. Wow.
Don’t tell me that kids today aren’t learning anything. I don’t know where she learned about atoms, but it wasn’t from me, and if she can take that concept and blame her farts on it, then I am in awe of her awesome power. Brain power, that is. She makes me so proud.