Methane emissions


I walked through the house, trying to find my son. Jesus, he was just here. I swear I left him right over there. Moments later, I heard squeals of delight and laughter upstairs. Upstairs… the place I had just recently asked him not to go. His mother was up there, trying to pack. I silently shook my head and enjoyed the calm in the air downstairs. I knew it wouldn’t last for long, because a thirteen hundred square foot house just isn’t enough space for a two and a half year old ball of energy. I couldn’t even remember who he was at the moment. Ten minutes ago, he was Buzz Lightyear. Five minutes ago, he was Silver Iron Man (for the life of me, I cannot get Tyler to call him “War Machine”). Just before I lost him, I believe he was Spiderman, running around the house shooting “sticky webs”, as he likes to call them, from his wrists.

I didn’t hear him come down the stairs. It’s one of the very few times that Tyler actually has the capacity to be silent. He has three methods for coming down the stairs. The first is referred to as “bumping down the stairs.” He sits on the stairs and bumps his butt down them. The second one, which sends me into fits of laughter when I see it, has no name. Tyler sits on the stairs, then turns around and lies down. Then, he simply slides down the stairs, quite quickly. It’s absolutely hysterical to watch, yet I constantly find myself wondering how he doesn’t smash his grapes while doing so. The third method is Tyler’s silent ninja assassin way of descending the stairs. He puts his hand on the wall for balance, because the handrail is just an inch too high at the moment for him to reach, and walks down the stairs. At 33 pounds, he’s not quite heavy enough to cause the stairs to creak. He just simply appears on the ground floor, as if he’s been there all along.

And so, there he was. As he walked towards me, he said, “It smells like daddy toots down here.”

“What?!” I was utterly shocked at the accusation. “What are you talking about?”

“Daddy, you tooted.”

“That wasn’t me, Tyler. That was Lilah.”

Tyler called my bluff. It was a weak story anyway, blaming the dog. “Daddy, you a stinkerwink.”

“A stinkerwink? How dare you?!”

I punished him by chasing him into the kitchen and tickling him relentlessly.

Later, we made our way upstairs to prepare for bed. After getting Ty dressed in his pajamas, we went to check on annoy Sarah. While talking to her about all the fun we had downstairs, and everything we did, Tyler rolled over onto his back, grabbed his feet and pulled them to his ears, and let out a loud and disgusting fart.

“TYLER!” Sarah shouted, while trying – and failing – not to laugh, “HOLY MOLY! THAT’S GROSS!”

I never taught him that, and I know that Sarah would never do such a thing. We rarely let him watch TV, and when he does, we always watch whatever he watches and have never seen that on TV. So I ask, how the heck does a two and a half year old just “figure out” how do to that? He thinks its hilarious, and LOVES farting. We can’t help but laugh, because he always looks at us with a smirk after he lets one rip.

Sarah predicted (accurately, I fear) that, “one day, he’s going to light those things.”