Hold on a sec. I'm just trying to formulate actual sentences in my head right now that will help me accurately convey my next story to you. Because it's gross. With a capital "G".
How about I lead with this statement: Today I broke up a terrorist cell.
Let that sink in for a second.
Okay. Now here's a disclaimer to my story. This story is not for the faint of heart, or for people who disgust easily. If you can't handle talk of simple bodily functions, then I will see you at my next blog entry, and you best stop reading HERE.
Wow. You're still reading? Don't stay I didn't warn you.
Now back to little ol' me breaking up a terrorist cell. Yes, I, Clare, wife, mother, mommy blogger, kiddie chauffeur, Mess Cleaner Upper Extraordinaire broke up a dastardly, evil, diabolical terrorist cell.
Before someone from the FBI finds my blog and calls, trying to recruit me to their ranks, let me just say, "Not interested. Flattered, but not interested. Because who's going to find stuff around here if I'm off trying to bust up the bad guys? Who's going to whine and moan around this house about stepping on yet another Lego piece that I am positive left a permanent imprint in my foot? Who? I ask. WHO?!? And really. I have naturally curly hair, and if I have to go to the hot desert, then the air will turn my wig of hair into a big ol' 'fro. And we can't have that, can we? So thanks for the offer, but my services are much-needed here."
I live with this terrorist cell, and they go by the oh-so-original moniker of, "Young Boys, Farters Extraordinaire." Yes, I know it sounds eerily similar to "Clare, Mess Cleaner Upper Extraordinaire," but sorry. I'm fresh out of monikers. Adding "extraordinaire" to the end of a phrase is how I'm rolling today.
Anyway, it seems like EVERY time we all get into the car together, which is, oh...say...SEVERAL TIMES A DAY, a wave of noxious fumes is released into our minivan. Then I say, "Alright. Who gassed? Say, 'Excuse me'!" and it is a phrase that I repeat over and over and over daily. (By the way, I always say, "gas" instead of "fart" with the kids. It's soooo much more civilized. But here in my blog, anything goes. I'm crazy like that.) Usually one of the boys will say, "It was me!" and bust into a fit of giggles, and then offer up a half-hearted, "'scuse me". And that is all I require. I understand that people have to gas, but for the courtesy of others in the pressurized cabin of a minivan, then PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, apologize for it with a simple, "Excuse me."
Years ago when Bill and I realized that with four kids, the most sensible family car option would be...sigh...a very utilitarian, and non-sexy minivan, we decided to get a "luxury" minivan. First of all, let it be known that there is NO SUCH THING as a "luxury minivan". The dealer will sell you on the details, like the DVD player, the leather heated seats, the upgraded floor mats, the extra cup holders, remote door openers, additional storage and all the other etcetera. You will think to yourself, "Yeah, I know it's a minivan, but look how sexy it is! Who needs a Jaguar when I can drive this bad boy?" But it's LIES, people. LIES. Now, I adore my minivan for the fact that it has fabulous amounts of storage, and I do enjoy that my seat warms my tush on those cold mornings, but the fact that it is allegedly a "luxury" minivan, in no way stops your kids from trashing it. Those extra cup holders? They're just another place to stash even more Pokemon cards. So save your money and go for the still very nice, but slightly less "luxury" minivan. You won't feel so bad when it turns into a crushed-crackers-ground-into-the-carpet-mobile. By the way, only idiots...ahem...BILL AND CLARE...buy minivans with beige leather seats. Always, always, always get gray or black seats with kids. I know that black is hotter in the summer, but you won't see the imprint of those muddy football cleats as easily.
Random question of the day: Why do I have footprints on the CEILING of my minivan? Riddle me that, peeps.
So my car. It's kind of messy to begin with, even though I fight that battle on a daily basis. But lately it is not only messy, but smelly. Like...fart...smelly. More than usual.
I was not entirely convinced that my boys just conveniently had to "gas" when we got into the car. I smelled (pun intended) a conspiracy. Coincidence? I think not. I just needed some evidence. This morning, I overheard my 8-year old son say to my 9-year old son, "I'm saving it. Are you saving it?"
And I immediately knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were talking about their own FARTS.
Now, other more gullible mothers might hear what my 8-year old said and think to themselves, "Aww...he must be talking about saving his allowance. Or the planet." But NO. I am two steps ahead of those little punks that I helped bring into existence. I just knew that what they were talking about was diabolical. Evil, in fact! I'm not sure how I knew it. Call it a gift. That dastardly duo must be stopped.
"Do you save up your farts until you get into the car?!?" I queried.
Yet another question I never thought I would ask. Ever. In my life.
Giggles spewed forth from my boys. "We save up our farts, Mom!" one of them said proudly. Seriously. My boy was beaming. I don't think I've ever seem him so proud.
THEY. SAVE. UP. THEIR. FARTS.
How does one actually go about "saving up" one's farts?
Wait. Don't answer that. I don't need to know the answer. I'll just assume it's another one of those "guy things" like not being able to thread a roll of toilet paper, that will remain an eternal mystery to women. And let's keep it that way.
Exasperated, I snapped at them and said, "You two are disgusting! You better not gas in this car on purpose!"
And here's the part where afterward I thought, "Really? This is my life? This is what I have been reduced to? A sergeant of farts?" I looked at the two of them and said, rather loudly, "You two are NOT getting into this car unless you get all your gas out. Right now. Here in the garage."
Did I actually just order my boys to fart? Seriously? In the garage? That phrase just came out of my mouth?
Sorry to my neighbors who may have overheard Loud Mom saying the above sentences this morning at 7:20 a.m. Hopefully the rain drowned me out. But yes, you didn't hear it incorrectly. I actually said that. Whatever it takes to bust up a farting terrorist cell, right?
Boys. And they say women are hard to figure out.