Death by Osmosis

Pudding has been laying down some serious fartage recently. I don’t know what this means.

He doesn’t poop a lot, but I don’t get the sense that he’s backed up. It just seems that his schedule for pooping is kind of rare – he definitely doesn’t do it every day. I was wondering if he is getting enough food, but he is gaining weight, his doctor said he’s doing fine, and he spends a lot of time with his lips plastered to my breast.

Which brings me to my husband, with whom I was discussing the stink bombs Pudding has been laying. I mean, you have to understand. We’re not talking light little puffs of air. Sometimes these things come out with the staccato of a machine gun, and the fumes are noxious gases of toxicity on the level of Agent Orange. I’m about to register his butt as a weapon of mass destruction.

Or maybe a weapon of ass destruction?

Hubby and I were recovering from a particularly potent explosion when he pipes up with the wisdom that, since Pudding is exclusively breast fed,  I am, essentially, smelling my own farts.

Although there is a certain logic to the thought process, this conclusion is one that only a man would come to.

In the meantime, if anyone dies over here, I could be an accessory.

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