Yes, you read that correctly, the symphony. What, I can hear you wondering, do little boys and the symphony have in common. I’ll give you a clue, it’s the wind section.
The sounds produced from the south central regions of Husbands offspring, is quite astonishing. Any orchestra would be proud to include their array of notes as accompaniment. I sometimes think the oldest two offspring are holding a conversation with their bottoms. The to and fro goes on like witty banter, with a nasty effluence. Either that, or they are in fact having the most venomous argument with each other and getting away with it.
In order to increase the diversity of their tunes they also often try squashing their bum cheeks onto assorted different surfaces to test out how squashed wind sounds. I have been invited to share the vast range of musical notes that can be cultivated using wind on wood, porcelain and cushion. I’m sure we all know about bubbles in the bath tub, but did you know that attempting to trap a bubble between skin and bath can make the most extraordinary cacophony?
Unfortunately the smells that go with the sounds would probably not be quite so welcome a part of their symphony. They certainly aren’t to me. I am not sure exactly how these children continue to exist because quite obviously their insides are rotting. It’s the only logical explanation for the olfactory assault their bottoms are capable of.
So there we were, all minding the gap, sitting together on the bus one day and I get the inkling of the trademark rotten cabbage odour that I am unfortunately so intimately acquainted with. Husband and I lock eyes and exchange a knowing glance. Grateful for the small mercy that the responsible child’s bottom had chosen this public setting to engage stealth mode but still mortified feeling like I was some sort of unwilling accomplice to the crime. At least I could help choose the bottom line up suspects.
Nothing prepared me for the joy the child would experience when he realised he was responsible for bringing tears to the eyes of an entire bus. “I farted.” One of our children proudly announced so that anyone in any doubt about the reason they were in physical discomfort could pin the blame squarely on us. Thus voiding any small benefit we had secured by the silent treatment the insulting odour had chosen to announce itself to the general public.
Perhaps I should sell tickets to their show, at least we could turn some profit from their questionable talents.