It seems to me that there comes a time in the life cycle of a mummy blog when one must write the fart post.
Why is that? A need to over-share maybe. Having laid yourself almost entirely bare – on subjects ranging from childbirth to constipation – where left is there to go? Actually, I am quite restrained compared to most. Oh, is that why? Who cares. Press on.
Here is my fart post.
I won’t lie to you. Since having the child, since having her through the birth canal (let’s call it) and beyond, things have been somewhat louche (lit: crossed-eyed) around the gusset. Please forgive the flagrant sequestration of vocab (there I go again), but louche seems to say it all for me.
I can say, with hand on heart, that, coming from a family of prolific and unabashed farters (oh, how they will love me more for this… I can’t wait for Christmas), I have not been much of a farter myself. And then I had a baby. Things have changed. Some stuff is out of my control. But it is still so surprising to me at times that I will wake myself up with it in the night.
Last Christmas in the UK I shared a bed with my sister. I woke myself with a fart and said something along the lines of “ooops, I’m sorry”. She said “Oh, you really need to chill out about that!” Similar happens in bed with Mr B. It gives him a little chuckle. So I am doing some good in the world.
The other night, when I was in the kitchen, something like a chair scraping along the floor caused him to ask “was that your arse Babsey?”. It wasn’t, and he was visibly disappointed. “Does it make you love me more, my farting?” I asked. “How can I love you more?” (I wish) he (had) said*.
Ha ha. This is just a shoe horn for a great tune…
*Actually the answer was just a simple “yes”. That will do for me. That’s my fart post. What’s yours?