Even Mummy Farts
by Suzanne Faed
My Mummy doesn’t fart. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Whenever Daddy drops a stink bomb, she shakes her finger at him. ‘Peter, that is disgusting! Take your smelly bottom outside.’
Most of the time she needs to open a window. Daddy just laughs. That makes Mummy even grumpier.
I’m not very ladylike. We like to stir Mummy up, so when my tummy is grumbling, I’ll give him my secret signal.
Daddy will say to me, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Toot your horn, Evie.’
I smile and squeeze. TOOT, TOOT!
We laugh but Mummy shakes her finger at us. ‘Honestly, you two are as stinky as each other.’
She waves us outside, shuts the door and opens a window. I wonder if even Mummy farts? It is extraordinary that she could eat baked beans and not squeak out one or two. But my Mummy, she is a lady.
One afternoon, Mummy was cooking in the kitchen. I sniffed the air. My eyes watered. It smelt like sweaty socks that had been left in the bottom of a school bag.
‘Mummy, what’s that smell?’
‘Must be the rotten eggs in the bin.’
And she kept on baking her brownies.
The next day, Mummy was doing exercise. She was on all fours, stretching like a cat that had just woken up. That’s when I heard it. BA-BRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP!
The noise made me jump. Even our sleeping dog opened his eyes and cocked his head. His nose twitched. He whimpered and covered his snout with his paws.
‘Mummy, what was that noise?’
‘Must have been some thunder outside.’
And she kept on stretching, her bottom up in the air.
I looked outside but the sky was clear. I watched her suspiciously. Why was she smiling?
The day after, Mummy took me to the swimming pool. I was pretending to be a mermaid when I saw bubbles floating up around Mummy.
‘Mummy, where did those bubbles come from?’
‘Must be a frog in here.’
And she kept on swimming, even though I know she doesn’t like frogs.
I know that Mummy is a lady but I’m starting to think that even Mummy farts.
I begin to watch her closely. I become a fart detective. I follow Mummy around the house, sniffing the air and listening for noises. She goes about her business, as ladylike as can be. I sneak up on her, put my ear to the bathroom door. Nothing. No rotten eggs. No claps of thunder. Not even a frog.
Maybe Mummy really is a lady. But maybe I’ll try one last tactic. I’ll be bold and just ask her. Then I will know, once and for all.
‘Mummy, do you ever … toot your horn?’
‘Sometimes I toot the horn in the car,’ Mummy says with a smirk. ‘But not too much because it’s frowned upon.’
I shake my head. ‘No, not like that. I mean, do you … fart?’
Mummy laughs and flutters her eyelashes. ‘Oh no. I’m too much of a lady for that.’
My head drops.
‘Evie, can I show you something?’ Mummy whispers.
My eyes widen. ‘Yes,’ I whisper back.
Her eyes twinkle. ‘Pull my finger.’
So I do. BA-BRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP! We burst into laughter.
‘Guess I can’t act like a lady all of the time,’ Mummy says.
I giggle then gasp. A window needs to be opened.