Memories

When the sons were little bits of boys, we had a problem getting little boy hands into their mittens. Either the fingers would cram together and try to fit in the thumb spot with the thumb or the thumb would want to join the fingers and once I actually pulled a mitten over a pacifier because the kid wouldn't let go of it. And then I had a brain storm and made up a story about Mr Thumb and the Finger brothers and how Mr Thumb had his own place and the finger brothers all lived together. Somehow it made sense to the sons who in toddler speak called them Mifler Flum and the Finger Brolies

Older son little boy then was all eyes with a fragile air about him. Younger son was... well... cherubic. Rounded cheeks, blue eyes, blonde hair and an infectious giggle. And yet he was typically younger son, a smaller verison of the man he is today. You needed to know this to understand the sheer importance of what happened one cold day.

We were neatly sending Mifler Flum and the Finger Brolies to their respective residences and I casually wondered aloud why Mr Thumb lived alone. Younger son with an angelic innocence looked at me and said. "because he farts". Not one to laugh at something a child says simply because it would cause whatever that was to be repeated ad infinitum, I then mused that I didn't know thuimbs could fart. 'Sure they can.." darling blue eyed little boy said and then held up an unmittened hand to me "Wanna smell?"


Thumb farts..... who knew?