Snarting, for those of who don't have nine-year-old boys is a contraction of sneeze and fart. I know this because I have (yes, the glory and rapture is mine!) a nine-year-old boy who frequently very loudly and very proudly snarts. Or fneezes. It dissembles him to tears of laughter.
He tells me my farts are SBDs, that is "silent but deadlies," and because of them he holds me in some esteem. He respects my methane.
He asks me, "Can we someday, like maybe over Christmas break, light our farts on fire?" "Can we set off a rocket in the living room?" "How about a potato cannon?" he asks, as he swings down the bannister to rummage the laundry to find the shirt with the electric guitar on the front, and somehow in the process knocks over ornaments on the Christmas tree which shatter to the ground.
I'm having a boyhood. Me, who has only one younger sister and we played for years washing and oiling to a gleamy shine a collection of Breyer horses and making them relate, emote, and otherwise have relationships am forced by having a boy to hide behind the credenza while he hoots and hollers and runs around in his underwear with his little potbelly jiggling shouting, "Ninja alert!" There are no tea parties. Nobody plays dress up. And, if I'm honest, there is no credenza.
From Santa he asked for a crossbow.
In the tub washing his dirty knees -- which are not figuratively but actually covered in dirt -- he amasses his Lego figurines and makes them fight among the suds and when I ask, "Do they have to fight? Can't Zain, and Chima and whatnot be friends with Lord Business?" he says, "Mom, I know you want peace on Earth and everything, but this is my bath."