Yesterday, I noticed that Stryker was farting as accentuation.
"Yeah, that song was awesome, Mom" Fart.
"I'm tired." Fart.
"Sometimes a man needs a snack, Mom." Fart.
"Hey, that's my chair!" Fart.
When I tucked him in -- and he was all soft and floppy and sweet--I told him that farting was actually a choice one makes with one's body and not an inviolable right. Furthermore, this choice was no longer available to him.
"But I can't help it! I have to fart," he objected.
That's why we have three bathrooms in this house, honey. Go find one. And I also told him that when he was living in a college dorm, he could get as stinky and gross as he wanted--he could fart all day.
"Why, you could even grow armpit mold for that matter," I told him.
That was his takeaway. "Armpit mold. I think I'll like the college life, Mom."
Sure. Good luck on the girlfriend part, honey.