Sigh.

I knew it was coming.  I mean, I have a son, so I knew that sooner or later a certain sort of humor would begin appealing to him.  One that leaves me shaking my head and praying that it will soon pass.

Although I know it won’t.

I’m talking about burping.  Yes, burping.  The Munchkin has reached the stage where burping is now considered the epitome of entertainment.  He gets a kick out of burping while he is in mid-sentence, and lately he will burp just for the sheer, uh, joy of it.

As any parent worth their salt knows, non-reaction is the key to stuff like this.  Keep the face completely devoid of emotion. Keep the voice on an even keel, and only remind him to excuse himself in a normal speaking voice.  That’s about all I can do.  I’m sure he and his friends do it constantly, and part of the fun is seeing if Mommy will have a cow.

I’ve promised myself I won’t give him the satisfaction of having a cow, even as inwardly I roll my eyes and wish for him to find the really bad jokes he would come up with on his own to be the preferred form of comedy again. Even as I find his amusement at the sounds emanating from his mouth completely amusing, I cannot in good conscience condone burping as a valid form of humor.

Times like this, I wish for a girl.  Then I would only have to deal with what she wants to wear to school and how I should do her hair.

Right?

Actually, if I’m wrong, I don’t want you to tell me.  Let me live in my fantasy world.  Please? 

Actually, that’s pretty far off, even for a random internet quiz. I wonder what it would say about me if my fridge were this freakily futuristic fridge/table hybrid from Gorenje? The whole design does not sit well with the Fridges Rights Movement on DVice:

If I was a refrigerator, I would be feeling pretty unappreciated right now. What’s a table ever done besides hold food level? If you leave cheese on a table for a few days it’ll go bad, but if you keep it in a fridge it’ll stay fresh!

You won’t need to stand up to get the milk carton, but you’ll know deep down that you’re doing something wrong.

True enough. Convenience is one thing; the closety element of disguise here takes it to the rarefied level of those ridonkulous Victorian frilled pantaloons on piano legs. Not to mention the superstructure here makes it impossible to argue with someone sitting directly across from you…which is really the whole point of sitting directly across from someone, or is that just me?