Seriously, enough with the farting.

I’m waiting, at this stage, for things such as the brown line down the belly, for my belly button to pop, for my back to start aching, for the baby to get hiccups.

No, I get flatulence. Thank you VERY MUCH.

There will be times when we’re out shopping that Eric absolutely refuse to walk near or make eye contact with me because of the smell that escapes. He’ll give me this peripheral wide-eyed stare of part wonder, part disgust, and want to know where the hell his dainty (shut up) wife went.

The Books, they speak briefly about this marvel, but nothing I’ve read has prepared me for it. And the super mentor moms in my life? Nary a word, either.

I think this late-in-the-game development is part of that master plan of grandparents to get their children to reproduce. Maybe I need to go visit Mom and Pa for a few hours, hmmmm? Let them share in the stink wonderment that is growing their granddaughter…

Possibly related posts:

1. Weirberbd
2. Can bellies fart?
3. I think it’s a little sad I’m mourning the loss of inanimate objects
4. Down. But with soon-to-be pretty toes.
5. The final excuse needed