He spent the next three days in the living room, working with brown and beige fabrics that I helped him order, because apparently he needed ‘fart-colored tulle’—a phrase I never thought I’d say in my life.
He watched tutorials on my phone about how to bunch up the fabric, asked me for help with the knots, but insisted on arranging every single layer himself.
He got frustrated twice, almost cried, but kept going. His little hands working so carefully, tongue sticking out while he focused.
Yesterday, he finished. He put it on and strutted around the house, showing it off proudly to his dad and grandma, who both looked completely horrified.
I thought I’d be embarrassed, but instead, I felt this weird surge of pride. My kid said he wanted to be a fart, I told him to figure it out, and… he actually did.
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