My father has a lot to answer for. Ignoring the fact I am an end of line item with built in kinks and glitches, he isn't a bad man.... except when it comes to passing wind.
For us regular folk it's a natural occurrence. We might not shout about it, we might not want to own up to it when we do it, but we all do it. It happens. It's called farting. And although it mightn't be the politest of pastimes, one tends to turn a blind eye to it assuming one can keep a straight face and ignore the aftermath.
Not so my father. He has the full range in his back pocket (pardon) ready to unleash at the speed of light if the need arises. And alas, this habit has rubbed off on Grace. A picture of politeness, Grace's cheeky grin might be a red herring.... it's confirmed... she has Grandpa's Bottom.
I'll paint the scene.
We're playing together, reading a book with Laura, Grace's godmother. All is going well. Grace is attentive, enjoying the interaction. Engaged even. I see the moment change. She stops listening, her brow furrows. She pushes the book away, walks over to me and squats as if she's working out with Jillian Michaels. And then she farts, grinning, positioned perfectly over my lap.
I'm horrified. This wasn't an unexpected 'pop'. This was a calculated, well timed fart. She knew it.
I have failed. Grace has Grandpa's Bottom and she's not shy about it either.