At Avery’s holiday concert, as I sat surrounded by beaming faces, the parental pride was palpable. The children marched in, class by class and took their place on stage. Avery stood near the back, so I couldn’t see her but I cried anyway. It’s the music. Gets us every time. After the last song, Avery’s Ed Assistant lifted her up so her head was above the rows of other Kindie heads. Avery’s eyes met mine and she shouted, “Hi Mummeeeeeeee!” as loud as she could, waving frantically.
Later that night as we lay in her bed reviewing the day, she asked, “See me Mummy? My show. See me?”Yes I saw you. You were amazing. A star, in fact.
The next day, Avery and I attended her big brother’s concert. Cloaked in a forest green bed sheet, he played the role of one of the Three Wise Men. I may be biased, but I’m pretty sure he was the wisest of the lot.
Then during a quiet moment in the play, a very loud toot broke the silence. No, not a horn or flute from the play. I’m talking about a big ol’ fart.
Others only heard it, but I felt it. The offending tooter was seated upon my lap.
My girl finds flatulence absolutely hysterical. Whenever she passes gas, she proudly announces it to all. “My tooted!” she’ll exclaim, grinning.
In this instance, she felt the need to make me aware of this particular expulsion.
“Mommy tooted!” she bellowed.
A comma and a pronoun would’ve been greatly appreciated –> “Mommy, I tooted!” Too much to ask?
