Gabriella farted so loud today that I thought her jeans had ripped. It sounded like someone had taken the sound of a steamboat horn, a souped-up car muffler, a strangled weed eater, and Chewbacca’s wail, wadded them together, and shoved them out of Gabriella’s backside.
I didn’t know she had it in her. Literally.
At first, I blamed it on the plastic chairs in our classroom, because we all know that hard plastic is prone to amplify the sound of already ghastly farts. But as the day went on, I started to notice Gabriella raising her leg, scrunching her face, and casting odd smiles after she had released. It’s crazy, but the first two weeks of school we were hardly able to get her to read in front of the class without hiding her face and giggling with embarrassment. Now, she is crop-dusting us when we walk behind her in the hallway and ranking her own farts, often frustrated at a squeaker because she claims she can do better.
We have been trying to get her to peel back the layers and be comfortable in her own skin. I guess she is finally warming up to us. And warming us (in a twisted way).
Thank God for small victories?