As soon as you stoop down and her mouth gets so close her warm breath tickles your ear hair, and you start concentrating in preparation of a hearing a secret or embarrassing story … “BOO!”
She’ll shout, and while you’re writhing around in pain trying not to cuss in anger and frustration, she’ll sit back and laugh so hard and so honestly that you’ll forgive her as soon as your ear stops ringing.
After losing a substantial amount of nighttime books for causing her parents excruciating pain, Jellybean switched tactics. Rather than shouting, she mutters something the length of the Gettysburg Address with her warm, wet breath, making you squirm with its sheer grossness.
But the results are the same — giggles giving way to gut-busting laughter.
It seems that Jellybean is getting in touch with her inner boy, because that’s not the least of her rather unladylike behavior.
Maybe it’s because she was raised by a father who still thinks farts are funny, but Jellybean has a gift for the gastrointestinal guffaw. She loves to burp. She burps often. She burps loudly. She burps with purpose.
Forget Honey Boo-Boo’s mama or Booger from “Revenge of the Nerds,” when it comes to belching, Jellybean knows no peer. If only there was a way (or a reason) to cultivate such a God-given talent.
The child won’t drink root beer, and while broccoli tends to make itself known via the Other End, I don’t know of a particular dietary option we could take advantage of in order to introduce Jellybean to the cut-throat world of Competitive Burping.
Oh, it’s underground to be sure, but it does exist. The first rule of Burp Club — Do Not Talk about Burp Club. The second rule of Burp Club — always say “excuse me.”
Just imagine a horde of heavy-set trucker-types with “Duck Dynasty”-inspired beards, all dressed in camouflage and eating canned hot dog chili, pickles and Vienna sausages in preparation of the next bout, and in struts Jellybean, looking as adorable as a blonde Rudy straight out of “The Cosby Show.” She’d be decked out in pink from the bows in her pigtailed hair to the sparkles her on shoes, before cracking burps so loud, thick and guttural it would sound almost primal.
Them veteran good-ol-boy belchers will have no choice but to stare in wonder before bowing to their newfound deity, hoisting her on their shoulders and parading her around the Moose Lodge like Ewoks did with C-3PO.
A dad can dream.
It’s hard to deny such a talent, but manners dictate that we as parents not encourage such behavior. So every time Jellybean lets one rip, I stare at her sternly until she apologizes (usually only after she stops giggling), and she does the same for me if I poot.
Parents must set good examples, else kids will never learn. And besides, I hate to imagine her standing at the podium in Oslo, Norway, and just before thanking “my loving father for always supporting my dreams …. Couldn’t have done it without you, Dad,” she blows that internal foghorn singeing the eyebrows of every fuddy-duddy in the crowd.
But then again, she’ll probably still be cute, so they’ll probably think it’s precious … long as she says, “excuse me.”
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org.