Well, just damn! Here I am 63 years old with my first grand baby on the way. About three months ago, my 28-year-old daughter announced that she’s pregnant. Of course, all the wimmen folk in the family are giddy and clucking around like hens, and I am excited as well. Now comes the weird news. Oh, there’s no problem with the little feller. It’s just that…well, I am not sure if he is off to a good start in this world. Melissa just forwarded me his first clear sonogram and I swear it looks like he is picking his cute little fetal nose.
I can’t say that I’m surprised. Many of those who share my DNA have exhibited an inordinate fascination with roly-poly boogers, poorly timed farts, and ear-splitting burps. My youngest daughter is a world-class burper and I have tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to get her to exhibit her considerable skill for the video camera. I’m sure she couldn’t shatter crystal like Ella Fitzgerald could with her high notes. But, I’d be willing to wager that if Cori let go with one of her burps and there was a spittoon nearby, it would probably split at the seams.
I think back on my own life and recall my own fascination with bodily functions. When I was in the first grade at Brooklyn Grammar School in Cayce, South Carolina, I raised my hand to get permission to go to the potty. My teacher, Ms. Skinner, told me that I would just have to wait until recess. No way! I had to go bad. I just sat at my desk and wee-weed all over myself and onto the floor. The other kids were laughing hysterically at my “accident.” I don’t remember crying or anything like that. I think I was splattering the puddle with my sneakers. Poor Ms. Skinner…she didn’t get mad at me but she damn well never refused another request for a bathroom break from me or any other kid in the classroom.