Buried in my own doo-doo

The affair of the flatulent leaf should have come as no great surprise.

* * *

One of my favorite tricks with kids is to use naughty language. (I learned this from a priest.)

Not really naughty, of course — just goofy, poop_–_level naughty. To wit: if I catch you saying “But I do do my own taxes!” then I will immediately reply, “You said doo-doo!” I might ding you on the “But,” too. And if you invoke the word “duty”? I’ll giggle mercilessly.

So you see, I deserve everything I got.

* * *

Yesterday, Fern handed me a leaf she’d collected. She’s doing this a lot these days, and it’s usually with the dodgiest fragment of putrid mildewy leaf she can find.

“It’s for you!” she said, picking a postage-stamp sized leaf up out of a mound of what appeared to be ex-squirrel on the sidewalk. From her look, she clearly expected that I’d give the grotty old thing full honors as a “gift from Boo.”

So I put the leaf corpse daintily on the mantel with the other leaves she’s collected and I haven’t yet “disappeared.”

“That’s beautiful!” I lied. “I like leaf art!”

Boo thinks for half a second and then hits me with my own joke:

“Daddy, you said fart!”

And, alas, she was right: I had.

How is it that my three-year old has a better sense of humor than me?