Faker!

Finn has found great humor and wonder in the fake burp.

He'll bring it out any old time, after we eat, when I'm giving him a bath, after a particularly good story. Somehow, he knows deep down that it's a gesture of appreciation--a job, a moment, a reading well done. I don't know if he's been hanging with ogres or folks from cultures who revere the burp, but Finn has adopted it as his own calling card and sign of approval.

He enters and exits the day with a belch.

This morning, Bear and I were arguing over who knows what. I've been in a perpetual bad mood for the past four days. Ever since I pulled in all-nighter to finish up a freelance job. Or maybe the funk travels with the nasty little piece of yucky I have to finish for tomorrow. Anyway, I've been bitchy and this morning, I found ample opportunity to let it out on the first person I saw, like some opposite-world love potion.

And Bear was game. He doesn't tend to let me ride through my fits, but to challenge and even CALL ME ON THEM. That bastard.

So today we rumbled over fiber content in my Kashi cereal or if he was going to do this Master Cleanse with me because I know he said he would and he knew he said, "Like hell" or something something, and we hit an awkward moment, where I realized I was being a Master Poo, but refused to admit it. Or speak.

Yes, I pulled out the silent treatment. Because I am 37 and mature.

And just then, when I was still on fumes and Bear was about to revel in his moral rectitude, there came from the peanut gallery a righteous, BEEEEEELLLLCCCHH. Followed by an assortment of bubbly giggles.

I tried so hard, dear readers, to glare, to visually condemn the insolent little muffin who had interrupted my mood.

But all I could do was laugh.