We grabbed the last of the available booths and settled in for dinner.
The boys were eating and actually behaving.
Mr. Yoy and I were reviewing our days.
I repositioned myself on the booth and my hot skin against the sticky vinyl made that familiar sound.
Big E's eyes opened as wide as saucers.
DADDY! YOU PASSED GAS!
Big E yelled out for all to hear.
There were two things that prevented this from not being the most embarrassing meal we've had with Big E in his three short years.
1) He wasn't in possession of a microphone.
2) Our closest food neighbors were a table or two away.
BIG E, THAT WAS MOMMY'S LEG, NOT DADDY PASSING GAS.
I tried reasoning with him. That went well.
DADDY! YOU PASSED GAS!
He announce it again in case anyone missed it.
I tried to make the noise again to prove it was me, but we ALL know that never ever ever works.
So we busted out the birthday cookies for a distraction. That did the job.
On a side note, we are very classy here at the Yoys and we do not call it farting. Passing gas is way more sophisticated.
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