December 3rd, 2007
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.