I am pregnant. Therefore, I make gas.
Gas production these days is an awkward, unexpected thing. The variations are like the color of the rainbow: strong enough to propel me across the room in one moment, then a warm, gentle, egg-y rumbling, wafting in the air in the next.
Very ladylike, I know.
Take one recent weekend: I was walking the aisles of Target with my family, when something akin to explosives began shooting out of my behind. Luckily, no one was close enough to hear, but after leaving an embarrassing smoke trail in my wake, I whispered to my husband, “Uh oh! I farted!” He didn’t even flinch. I said it again, “Babe, I just farted! Did you hear me?” He simply replied, “Yes.”
And that’s all I got.
Maybe HBL was silent because his brain was processing the unthinkable: we were now on equal gas footing. Somehow, in this small window of time, our roles reversed, and to judge by his non-reaction, Big Papa didn’t like it. But who can blame him? I’m sure he’s not all together comfortable sharing the “Gas Superstar” spotlight with me. It’s gotta hit him somewhere when his little wife can “keep up.”
Lucky for him, he’ll get his crown back when our wee little babe finally arrives. At least, I HOPE he gets his crown back. I wouldn’t want this to be a permanent thing. For. All. Our. Sakes.