I grew up in a home where my father and brother (sorry Dad, sorry Bo -the truth must be told) brought belching and the passing of gas to a rare art form. Tim grew up in a home where gastrointestinal episodes were hardly discussed much less openly acted upon. In our home, we lean toward the latter but with understanding that well, these things happen. The general rule is that "excuse me" must be spoken at least as loudly as the offense itself. But despite our desperate attempt to raise respectful and civilized young men, it is now apparent that with two boys in the same house body humor is inevitable.
We don't use the f-word in our house. (not THE f-word, we don't use that one either but hopefully you know what I mean) and yet somehow our boys have not only picked up this word but have developed a most unusual pronunciation of it...forting. And regardless of my personal hope that restraint be exercised in this area, I cannot help but get caught up in the silliness of these two characters. Plopped on the floor like best of buds and cracking up because "someone forted" even when they didn't is perhaps brotherly bonding in its truest form. What's a mom to do but laugh?