“Your son just invented an imaginary friend… to blame his farts on.”
““Elizabeth

His name is Pete, apparently. And he doesn’t play or tell stories or fly or save the world. He just farts. It was him, that’s who farted. Not our son (who just ate half his bodyweight in strawberries). Pete might not be the life of the party, but he sounds like a good friend.

I think it’s interesting how parents, when sharing some kid story, sometimes use the possessive pronouns of “your child” and “my child” like light accusations. In this case, however, the jokes on her, because I think it’s utterly priceless that the little guy created an imaginary friend to blame his butt bombs on. Though, I never did dream up a scapegoat for bad gas, myself… he’s definitely my son.

Next time I’ll blame it on Pete. He can be my friend, too.

““

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