Never Trust a Fart

So, there we were --- a mini-van and an SUV filled to the gills and headed to the beach. Of course, we put the Littles in their seats last after dutifully taking them to the potty and insisting that they at least try to go since we're embarking on a three hour tour. You can probably guess where I'm going with this, can't you? Yep. It wasn't ten minutes after leaving the house when Carlyn was emphatically announcing from her Britax that she had to go. Real bad. As she is not one to typically lie about such matters of importance, we believed her and made haste to jump off the interstate to the first available facilities.

As we pulled into the Shell station (again, I remind you this is ten minutes from the house), Madelyn pipes up that she needs to go too. Out we hop, and make our way to the little girls room. And then I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

"Carlyn, are you going to go?", I ask.

"Nope. I don't have to. It was just a fart.", she said flatly.

Dying. I am dying at this point.

Now, I wish my three year old didn't know the word fart, but I'm afraid the men in our house have long instructed her in the ways of farts and no amount of protesting from me has been able to undo the damage. I guess I should at least take comfort in the fact that she has truly internalized the wisdom shared from her beloved father: Never Trust A Fart.