ゐLL A

My son announced on Tuesday evening, during dinner, that for Halloween he wanted to dress up as a fart. I literally almost choked on the water I was drinking. He’s six years old. He was just sitting there, serious, with spaghetti sauce on his chin, saying: “I want to be a big brown fart cloud.” My husband looked at me like it was my job to handle the situation. I didn’t know what to say. Where do kids even get these ideas? I told him absolutely not. To pick something normal — a superhero, a dinosaur, anything else. He made that stubborn face that means “he’s never going to let this go.” He started explaining to me, with the utmost seriousness, that farts are funny, that everyone would laugh, and that it would be the best costume ever. I was exhausted after work, my head was pounding, and I lost my patience. I said: fine. You want to be a fart? Make it yourself. I’ll help you find the materials, but the rest is up to you. I thought he’d give up after ten minutes. He didn’t. He spent the next three days in the living room, working with brown and beige fabrics I helped him order, because apparently he needed “fart-colored tulle” — a phrase I never thought I’d say. He watched tutorials on my phone about how to gather fabric, asked me for help with the knots, but insisted on arranging every single layer himself. He got frustrated twice, was close to crying, but kept going. His little hands working carefully, his tongue between his teeth as he focused. Yesterday he finished. He put it on and strutted around the house, proudly showing it off to his father and grandmother, who both looked absolutely stunned. I thought I’d be embarrassed, but instead I felt a strange pride. My son said he wanted to be a fart, I told him to figure it out himself, and he… actually did it. He’s been sleeping in it for two nights. Two neighbors have already asked if I can make one for their kids, too. I told them he’s taking orders now. Eight dollars per cloud. He’s never been so confident in his life.