As a parent, I'm right there for all of my kids' "firsts": first bath, first haircut, first steps. The firsts are always bittersweet for me, as they signal both the joy of their growth and the heartbreak of their imminent independence.
Tonight, I once again witnessed a wondrous first. I was chatting with Mr. Z as he snuggled into his warm bed, when he let forth with a thundering butt-blast of heinous flatus. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed his sheet and comforter and pulled them over his head, hermetically sealing the boy in his very first "Dutch Oven."
At first he struggled, trying to fight his self-inflicted gas chamber, but eventually he succumbed, and inhaled deeply the moment. He realized that there's only one "first," and it's an experience to be savored. When the stink-silt settled, I released him from the putrid pocket and regaled him with the dazzling history of what the Spanish call, "El Horno Holandés."
His response? "That was awesome! Let's do that again!"
Of course, my son. There is always room for seconds.