The other day I was doing the usual old grocery shop, when I had the good fortune of happening upon a bag of dried apricots. I was like holy shit! Dried Apricots! I used to love these things! Where have they been? How have they escaped me all these years? They look like a giant bag of ears! I will market them that way to my boys in hopes that they will then eat them. Perhaps I’ll tell them of Mike Tyson, or Van Gogh and we’ll make a game out of it. What fun!
With 2 little kids and a life of shuttling them around to school and adventures and playdates and road trips and sports, my car looks more like a mini convenience store than an actual car. And yes haters, I drive a minivan. It is ridiculous, a minivan convenience store. Who have I become, a question I’d wager every Mom driving one has asked herself at least once. It’s a Honda Oddessy, but I have learned that they are pretty impervious to speed traps. I’m convinced that with the right combination of “life is good” and “support our troops” bumper stickers that you could quite easily run meth across the border unsuspected.
So anyway, after getting home and almost dislocating both shoulders trying to carry every grocery bag in one trip, I put everything away and got right back in my car to pick up one son from the bus stop, the other from preschool. As usual, they were both acting like Ethiopian children who had not had a morsel in 4 days. I explained to them that they were extremely fortunate and that they should be grateful that they didn’t have distended bellies and dysentery and a frenzy of flies around their eyeballs.
Thank goodness I had that bag of apricots!
We all snacked away while I ran home for about 8 minutes to pack a quick picnic dinner, get everybody changed and geared up to head right back out to baseball practice. We finished the bag of apricots in the car.
At this point, the apricots had been in our bellies approximately 45 minutes.
As I overloaded both shoulders, looking like a sherpa hauling all of our crap. I grabbed my folding chair and went to close the trunk when all of a sudden a startlingly loud and extremely powerful fart nearly ripped out the seat of my jeans. “What the fuck was that?” I thought to myself, as my 4-year-old stood by my side, announcing to anyone in the parking lot that would listen “ewww, mommy farted, disgustin’!” Children, little angels straight from heaven.
Regaining my composure, I began the trek across to our practice field on the far side of the school. My stomach was protruding more and more with each step, and the gurgling and rumbling alerted me to the fact that something terribly wrong was going on. Christ, what did I eat?
Again, without warning, a long and very high-pitched fart came screaming out of me. It sounded like Louie Armstrong was playing a solo, right in my very own anus. I am sure that the families around us heard it, so I just pulled a “Wyatt, what do you say?” But he was no fool, exclaiming to anyone that would listen, “Mommy, you’re silly, that was your fart!”
This continued for the entire agonizing 2 hour practice. Sitting in my lawn chair, ripping up a storm that smelled akin to eating a dead bucket of squirrels, shitting them out, re-eating them and then shitting them again into a jar, adding more dead squirrels, pissing on them and then letting that jar sit in the sun for 3 days and then opening the jar. Times 10. Seriously, it was fucked up.
Finally practice was over and as I was farting and gathering our stuff up, Logan said, “Mom, my tummy really hurts.” Of course I told him he was just hungry (I tend to feed any problems after 5) so we ate and headed home. So we get home and it’s 7:45, we have to do homework, do baths, read books all in attempts at getting them to bed by 8:45-9:00. But when we were at the field, one of the Mom’s asked Logan, “Did you finish your book report? What did you do yours on?” What? Book report? FUCK! So now add book report to our to-do list. Awesome.
Oh yeah, did I mention I had the worst gas pains of my life and was up to an astonishing 5 farts per minute on average? Did I mention that our house smelled like sewer gas?
So Logan and I sit and start working on his book report, and he is reading the book out loud, and he is ripping identical farts to mine about every 6 words. He said,”Mommy, I just feel so farty, I can’t stop it’s like the farts just keep coming out of me and I can’t help it.” Oh dear god…the smell…
We start trying to guess what we could have eaten? My youngest, Wyatt was not having the same problem. He is made of farts anyway though. This made getting them to bed a frigging nightmare, because what’s funnier to 2 young boys than farts? You know what’s funnier? When it’s Mommy too. It was surreal, trying to tuck them in while there is constant, and I mean constant farting. Each fart produces another laugh, and the smell is so horrible our eyes were watering and we are hysterically laughing in agony and I started to actually dry heave.
I finally, FINALLY got them to sleep and went downstairs to get some fresh air. But that didn’t last because I soon polluted that space as well. My stomach looked as if I was a solid 6 months pregnant. I had to go to bed, I curled up in the fetal position and just let them rip. You would think they would have to stop, but as fast as I released them my stomach just made more. I could hear Logan farting in his sleep. It was pure head scratching insanity.
I awoke this morning, and by awoke I mean shot out of bed in a race for the bathroom like someone had just shoved a red-hot poker in my rectum. Let me tell you about explosive. If I would have shit through a screen I would not have hit metal. I felt like Megan in Bridesmaids, I just kept thinking “hot lava”.
Finally that subsided, and I skeptically removed myself from the toilet and went to make the kids breakfast. It appears Logan had had a similar experience. And then it hit me…
I Googled “dried apricots” and the 3rd one down read “apricots and gas”. I did a little research and in no time the mystery was solved.
So Please, beware of this seemingly innocent dried fruit…
unless you have a bone to pick with your husband or are trying to get out of sex for the evening.