Elegant may be only six-years-old and a girl, but her sense of humor is all eleven-year-old boy. She finds great humor in butts, so much so, that "butt" is now worda non grata in this house.
Farts are every bit as funny as butts, except that we use the word "poot" instead. Even Pete uses it.
For whatever reason, Elegant is convinced that Pete's is the stinkiest butt in the world with the stinkiest farts ever. I'm not sure why, because he's not all that bad. And believe me, I would know.
An ongoing game between Elegant and Pete is that she'll sometimes climb into bed with us in the morning and then wiggle around so she's never directly behind him, in case he might let one fly. Then he'll roll over so that she is, so she'll have to reposition herself. And so on.
(I swear, we are college educated people and we are generally considered to be socially presentable.)
Yesterday, Elegant was helping me sort laundry, a task at which she excels because she thinks it's just such a great job. Too bad she's not old enough for me to hand the job over to her permanently.
At one point, I handed her some of Pete's underwear ("Daddy panties" as she sometimes calls them -- very manly) and asked her to put them in Pete's laundry pile.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her surreptitiously sniff his underwear. I said, "Um, El, Daddy's underwear is clean, so what are you doing?
She replied, "I thought they might be dirty from all the Daddy poot-age."