It’s true. Infants have a fiendishly juvenile  sense of humor.

For instance, my newborn son always waits until the precise moment when I have opened the diaper to let loose with his best impersonation of a fire hose. It doesn’t matter if I open the diaper and immediately close it, expecting Old Faithful. Then he just bides his time. He also saves his most prodigious bowel movements for the seconds after he’s freshly changed.

 When my son pulls either of these two particular maneuvers, I usually favor him with a special scowl reserved for the occasion. He stares back with that most communicative of infant facial expressions that says, “Look buddy, my arms don’t do what I want. My legs don’t do what I want. Not even my head does what I want it to do. There is exactly one area of my anatomy over which I have a modicum of control and I’ll be darned if I don’t use it for maximum comedic effect.”

I can’t really blame him though. An infant’s entire existence centers around bodily fluids and the like. I’m not sure exactly where to stand in the debate of Nature vs Nurture, but I know that each one of us is, at least in part, the product of our environment. The life lesson that I choose to pull from this experience is to be aware of what’s filling up my environment. It may be coloring my view of the world more than I realize.