From an American cousin.
Potty training my three-year-old son, Matt, was a full-time job â and letâs just say, he wasnât exactly Employee of the Month.
One afternoon, we stopped by Taco Bell for a quick lunch between errands. The place was packed â every table filled, the air buzzing with chatter and the smell of tacos.
Just as I took my first bite, a strange odor wafted through the air.
Uh oh, I thought.
I checked my seven-month-old daughter first â all clear. Then it hit me. Matt hadnât asked to go potty in a while.
âMatt,â I whispered, âdo you need to go potty?â
He shook his head confidently. âNo.â
But that smell⌠oh, it was definitely getting stronger. My mom instincts kicked in.
âMatt, are you sure you didnât have an accident?â
âNo, Mommy!â he said again, louder this time.
I wasnât buying it. I leaned closer, sniffed the air, and sighed. Oh Lord, please donât let this be happening in public.
One last time, I asked, âMatt, did you have an accident?â
And thatâs when it happened.
Matt jumped up from his chair â in front of a full dining room â yanked down his pants, bent over, spread his little cheeks, and proudly announced at the top of his lungs:
âSEE, MOM! ITâS JUST FARTS!!!â
For a second, the entire restaurant went silent.
Then chaos â people choking on tacos, soda spraying out of noses, laughter echoing off the walls.
Meanwhile, Matt calmly pulled his pants back up, sat down, and continued eating like nothing happened.
I, on the other hand, wanted to crawl under the table and never come out.
As we were leaving, a few kind older folks stopped to thank me.
âSweetheart,â one woman said between giggles, âthat was the best laugh weâve had in years.â
And as we reached the door, an elderly gentleman leaned down to Matt and said,
âDonât worry, son. My wife accuses me of the same thing all the time â I just never had the guts to prove it like you did.â