“Macky is a mack Mack Mack, Macky I love you. Macky farts a lot, Macky macaroni and cheese. Nanny I love youuuu.” Country music top hit sung by my grandson each morning, a little ditty about his golden retriever with a penchant for pig’s ear treats and the after effects. No country hit would be complete without mention of heart’s true love, so I guess that’s me.  I never set my alarm to any other station, this one wakes me each morning, the sweetest little boy voice growing louder as he approaches my bedside.

When I was growing up, fart was a bad word.  We said pop. (I haven’t missed the irony of having a cat named Pop Pop.)  I come from a family that ignored bodily functions so it isn’t surprising to me now,  I still can’t say this word.  I can cuss with the best sailors but this one just feels, well, dirty. Try as I might to erase this word from my sweet Plum’s vocabulary, he persists, with the help of cousins, an uncle, even books and tv, not to mention Grandpa.  All act like this is perfectly normal to say even as I wince.  So each morning I am desensitized, the aroma of little boy morning breath, bright blue eyes shining, legos in one hand, petting his dog with the other, lifting his voice to the heavens, singing about farts.

This child heals many of my wounds. He reminds me to slow down, get dirty, look for beauty, find rocks.  Growing up where bodies are just vessels, not to be protected but used to bounce higher on the trampoline, he is teaching me a new song.  I don’t know that I will ever sing it aloud, yet it sticks in my head.  “Macky farts a lot. Plum I love youuuu”.