Can you say that?

Some families have all-out brash political debates at the holidays. Some families fight. Some families talk about popular news. Some families gossip about other family members.

My family, on the other hand, engages in what we know best: infantile humor.

This year, at the Thanksgiving table, my 11-year old cousin, who is generally quite reserved, started farting about halfway through the meal. At first, we politely ignored it, as good Scandinavian Midwesterners do, and then finally his older sister started saying, "Eew! Is that for real?"

My cousin grinned.
Pfffffft!

He turned bright red and fanned out his eleven-year-old boy ears. And then he reached underneath his leg and pulled out a homemade farting toy. His dad, sitting next to him, was also grinning. Clearly, Dad had taught Son a new trick. Go Team Rognes.

It was a contraption made from part of a wire clothes hanger, two rubber bands, and a washer. That easy! We were all fascinated and begged to take turns trying out the farting toy.

This distraction was too much for my three-year-old cousin. She wanted to be the center of attention, and aiming for an interception, she began to chant, "Pop! Pop! Pop, Mommy, I want pop!"

Giving her the attention she needed, another cousin said, "How old are you going to be this year, Leslie?"

"Bour," she said proudly.

"Bour? Do you mean four?"

"Bour."

Ah. She can't say the letter "F." This became apparent to my family very quickly.

Finding this to be a very appropriate time to instigate further puerile family fun, my father decided to ask a few questions of the three-year-old-"F"-less girl.

"So, Leslie. Can you say 'fun'?" my dad asked.

"Bun!" she exclaimed proudly. We all laughed, because really, childish humor is what we have most in common.

"Can you say 'fitch'?" my dad asked.

"Bitch," she said. Laughter erupted, and so the 3-year-old was encouraged to continue. "Bitch!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, bitch! Yeahhhhhhh, bitch! Yeah bitch! Oh yyyyeahhhhhh bitch!" She was screaming, in her toddler voice, and giggling happily in between each exclamation.

At this point, my college-aged brother had to excuse himself from the table. He gets really uncomfortable in situations like this and makes a swift exit. I was also uncomfortable and a little irked at my dad. I mean, who encourages a three-year-old to say bad words (particularly woman-demeaning words) and then thinks it's like sooooo funny?

My family, that's who. Happy Thanksgiving, Yeah, Bitch. Pfffffft.

Later, after all the antics had subsided, I called Stacia and told her about the Thanksgiving dinner. "Maybe it's because I work with kids," I said. "Maybe that's why I don't really find this funny."

"Well, honey," she said. "Now you have no excuse not to join us for Thanksgiving next year!"

She was referring to the annual Thanksgiving party that our friends throw. Our friends? They are similarly puerile, maybe even more so.

"Stacia," I said, "Thank you for the invitation. But....I'm trying to get away from farts and cussing."

Later on, I found the eleven-year-old fart-meister sitting with the three-year-old potty mouth. "Leslie," he was saying, "Do you know where my shirt is from? Abercrombie and Fitch. Can you say that?"