Two-and three-year-olds are into bodies. They are learning about all the cracks and crannies; how to get them dirty and how to clean them up. They learn how to control their little growing bodies enough to sit still in the doctor's office (as long as the wait is 30 seconds or less), to jump off the couch, and to swing on the playground. They are figuring out how to go in the potty and hold it the rest of the time. They think less-than-polite bodily functions are hilarious, and love to announce them in not-so delicate ways (loud voices at the store, in front of company...)
Georgie has learned how to ask for a diaper change. He waddles over to me, legs splayed out in his best John Wayne swagger, and firmly states, "Poo poo." Freddie has it down, too. He grabs my face so that I'll look at him, then calmly grabs his crotch. Nice.
Today, Angel started laughing out of the blue. I asked her what was so funny, and she snorted, "I have the toots!" She's always had a fascination for passing gas. Not very ladylike, I know. But very human. When she was very little, her dignified grandfather had some, er, "emissions." As soon as it wafted her way, our bitty Angel declared, "Phoo-ey!" while waving her little hand in front of her nose. I was remembering this precious tidbit of family history while watching her laugh at her "toots." After a moment, she sat bolt upright, sobering instantly. Her little nose wrinkled as she shouted, "I have the toots! I stink like a boy!"