Pull This

My last entry trended toward sentimental, perhaps even drifting to maudlin.   Hopefully this will get us back on track to this blog’s true spirit.

Like any good father, as soon she developed the cognitive and motor skills for it, and even before she knew her full name, I taught G to play the “pull-my-finger” game.    It’s a great game.    For those of you not familiar- A.) go back to Russia, and B.) it’s pretty simple, even for a two year old.    When you have to pass gas (i.e. “fart”), find your two year old, hold out your finger (any will do, although I prefer the index as it straight and yet small enough for a two year old to get their fingers around) then have said 2 year old pull it to the best of their abilities.     And then- and this is the key- you have to fart.   Otherwise they don’t think it’s funny and your wife won’t roll her eyes and think about that pre-med guy from college who was in love with her but sort of dorky but grew up to be a neuro-surgeon and who she definately should have married.

Fortunately, G got good genes (mine) and finds this is hilarious.    She cackles and snorts anytime we play this game to its successful, nausating conclusion.    But it's always a one way street.    She pulls, I ...   So the other day, while we were making dinner in the kitchen (to be fair, N was making dinner and G and I were jacking around generally being loud and unhelpful), I feel the urge to play the game.     She pulls and I let off a respectable volley, enough to sent G into a giggling fit and get a solid "Really???  In the kitchen????" from the wife.    About 30 seconds later, G, looking very serious now, points a finger at me and says "You pull my finger."     She's never done this before, and not being one to stifle a developmental milestone, I do as requested.     But, when nothing happens a few seconds later despite G being doubled over clearly squeezing, I figure I will have to make some appropriate noise so she doesn't feel bad about not being about to pull off the most awesome joke ever.   

But then she lets go with a massive blast, an honest four second, six note rolling thunder.    I thought it was going to blow her out of her learning tower.   I swear I saw her feet lift off the ground.

Houston, we've cleared the tower.

And the smell was like Death himself had eaten too much rotten opposum chili.   The dog got up and slunk away like it had been kicked.    G and I fell apart, laughing and hugging and high fiving.   It was a truly awesome display, and proof that she is definitively my daughter.  I have never been prouder of her than that monent, and probably won't be again until the day she catches her first smallmouth on a fly she ties herself.    

Happy Thanksgiving.