I was a little surprised when I stumbled upon a fart machine, burst into tears, and held it against my chest as if it was a precious family heirloom. But, here we are.
A handful of years ago, I was hosting a holiday- I can’t remember which one. Tablecloth pressed, centerpiece just so, candles lit. Joyful laughter and conversation bubbled around the table as I passed the mashed potatoes. Abruptly, the chatter stopped, as a loud, wet ripper of a fart reverberated throughout the kitchen. It was realistic sounding, but way too frat house to be from someone at the table. Right?
My initial instinct was to check the men first. My brother looked dumbfounded. Rob broke the silence with “What the hell was that?” And then I looked at my dad- laughing silently, but so violently, his entire body shook. A few more squeakers popped off from somewhere in the kitchen and it was obvious some kind of prank was afoot.
“Dad, did you buy a fart machine and hide it in my house?” I asked, incredulous. His booming laugh exploded, and the entire table laughed so hard, we never fully recovered. Every time someone would try to talk, they’d get interrupted by another fart. We weren’t sure if we were laughing at the fart sounds, or the fact my dad went through the trouble to buy a fart machine and plant it in my house as if he was a 12 year old boy. Either way it was incredible.
And so I wept.
And so it is.
Rob walked in and saw me crying gently to myself, something he sees often enough after dad died to not be alarmed. “Oh no, what is it now?” he asked.
“I found the fart machine,” my voice crackled. We both laughed a little at the absurdity of it.
“Dad was … nuts,” he said, giving me a gentle hug before heading to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.
When he left me to myself, cradling the stupid fart machine, my mind began to wander. If I were to leave to see Jesus, in say, ten years or so, what things would my girls stumble upon that would make them burst into tears?
Then I got a little nervous.
For example, after doing the household’s laundry last week, one of my old, ratty, worn-out elastic “crisis” undies accidentally got into the girl’s laundry basket. I instructed them to fold and hang up their clean clothes and when I went to check on them, I noticed my “crisis” undies mingling with the girl’s undies at the bottom of the basket. What shocked me first was how big they looked in comparison, like you could grab each side and parachute off a mountain. But also, it was clear they had seen some things. Have had some very bad, hard days. And I was deeply troubled they were exposed in broad daylight.
“Mommy, your undies are in our basket,” Poppy shared casually. “Did you poop your pants?”
“I think not!” I snapped. I heard Rob laugh from the living room, salt to the wound. “These are my back-up period undies, thank you very much, something you’ll learn all about in due time.” I snatched them from the basket and left in a huff. This was a total privacy violation, albeit not their fault, but still! NO ONE’S SUPPOSED TO SEE THESE UNDIES.
My mind slipped back to present as Rob walked in the room, holding his sandwich. I was still on the floor holding the fart machine. What do I do with it? Stuffing it in a drawer seems wrong, but so does displaying it on a mantle. “Whatcha thinking about?” he asked.
I looked up at him and sighed. “What if I die when the girls are older and they help you with my things, stumbling upon my cache of period undies? Do you think they’ll burst into tears? Laugh? Maybe some uncomfortable combination of both?”
“This is what you’re thinking about?”
The fart machine let out a squeaker.
“Yes.”
“We’ll probably lay your disgraceful undies out before us, wrap our arms around each other, and each of us will say a few words in your honor. Then we’ll weep before throwing them in the trash where they belong."
"They serve a practical purpose!" I said defensively, but he was already gone, back to his office.
I put the fart machine back on the shelf and closed the cabinet door.
I took a big, deep breath through my nose, blotted my wet eyes with my sleeve, and felt an unexpected peace.
And so they’ll weep.
And so they’ll laugh.
And so it is, when you have loved.
Have we met? I’m Anna Lind Thomas, a humor writer out of Omaha, Nebraska. I’m on the shortlist of USA Today’s top ten funniest women writers, and author of the best selling book We’ll Laugh About This (Someday) and my latest - I’m Not Ready for This. I perform hilarious and inspirational speeches (and readings) regularly at both secular and Christian events. Reach out to book me for your next event here, and don’t forget to say hi on Facebook and Instagram.