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When I was in kindergarten, there was a boy named Ronald Farmer*.  Even though it was nearly 40 years ago, I can still recall exactly what he looked like and his voice.  More vivid though is the memory of his funk.  I don’t know if his mama fed him boiled eggs, cabbage and pinto beans for breakfast everyday, but I do know that he was the fartingest kid ever.  In fact, we referred to him as Ronald “The Pooter” Farmer.  He moved away after that first year, and I’ve never seen (or smelled) him since, but the memory is still with me.

Flash forward 30 years.  My friend SueBob and I have been friends since those kindergarten days, and we were telling this story to another friend who went to an elementary school across town.  Suddenly, Willona started laughing.  Apparently FartBoy moved to her neighborhood and went to her elementary school and was renowned for his foul farts there too!  None of us has heard of him since then, but I suspect he works at a dump or something so that his odors will be disguised.

I relate this little story just to show that even the things that kids do at the tender young age of five, six or seven may haunt follow them for years.  Which is why I insist on the Princess doing silly things like bathing, combing her natty hair and brushing her teeth.  I try my best to instill manners, but she’s known at home for “letting it all hang out”.  Hopefully she is on better behavior at school, but after yesterday I can’t be sure.

You see, Halloween causes me a few problems.  Like candy.

The Princess is rather susceptible to sugar highs and lows, and will make my life a living hell when there are Skittles around.  Unfortunately, Skittles are her most favorite candy – we’ve even had TWO cats named Skittles – so hiding/destroying them is no small feat.  Especially when her guitar teacher gives them as treats for practicing her music lessons.

 

Taste the Rainbow, Yall

So.  On the day after Hectic Halloween, the Princess comes home and acts like a tweaking, sugared-up, psycho serial-killer all afternoon and evening.  After dinner, she heads to the shower after being threatened and making her mother cry.  Moments later, she explodes into the kitchen in tears.

“My bottom HURTS!!!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Look at THIS!!!”

W. T. F. ?  Get on your knees now and thank God that I am not posting the freaky picture of the H U G E chunk of candy in my child’s underwear.  My sobbing child brought me a pair of panties with an enormous WAD of candy in it.

“I pooped a Laffy Taffy!!!”

“Hmm.  I see.  Honey, when did THIS happen?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t recall pooping a big pile of hardened sugar in your undies?”  At this point, I have to fall off the wagon and fix myself a drink.  How else to cope with her weeping candy ass.  Literally.

Of course, the candy had adhered to her butt cheeks and basically glued them together.  Thus, the pain and tears.

I stewed and studied and fretted over the candy panties all evening and then asked the Princess about them again this morning.  After a few leading questions she responded….

“Oh Y E A H.”  Long pause.

“After guitar, I had some Skittles in my hand and then we went to recess and I had on a skirt with no pockets so I just stuffed them in the back of my panties for later.”

FOR LATER?  I don’t know whether to be more alarmed that she totally FORGOT about putting candy in her crack or that she planned to eat BUTT CANDY later in the day.  Sigh.

So all my efforts to teach her not to pick her nose were in vain.  Forty years from now, all the kids will remember my precious daughter as “Skittlesbutt”. 

But at least her farts smell like candy.

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