Monday, August 20, 2007

The Alchemist

I knew we were in trouble when my fresh newborn son, not even 24 hours out of the womb, ripped one so loud that I believed my husband, choking back laughter and pointing at the baby, had to be the culprit. Surely this miniature human being, sleeping so cozily on my husband’s now-trembling chest, could never be responsible for such an adult crime of flatulence.

SuperHusband couldn’t be prouder.

It’s a sad fact that since the beginning of time, men have loved toilet humor. No high-brow, intellectual punchline can begin to compete with a resounding exhibition of bodily function. A burp that rocks the foundation of our home can cure any foul mood, and the stinkiest of farts is sure to elicit an exclamation of “Yes!” from my husband as he pumps his fist.

Big Boy is going to fit right in. He’s mastered some form of breastmilk/formula alchemy that results in flatulent gold. So prominent does his wind-breaking factor into our lives that we’ve begun to refer to it as “tooting” so that we don’t use more offensive terms that would make our precious baby seem less, well, precious.

Not that calling it something nicer makes it any less offensive. I can’t figure out if the heady feeling I get when nursing results from the hormone triggering my milk “letdown,” or from the cloud of methane issuing from my son’s tiny diapers.

My family unanimously agrees that he is, by far, the gassiest baby anyone has ever known. During a recent trip back to Kentucky, the dreaded competition by relatives to capture maximum baby-holding time devolved from the average cat-fight to something more like a game of “hot potato.” I could barely lift my eyes, tearing with laughter, as he quite audibly and olfactorily filled our church amongst the staunch southern belles in their Sunday best.

And so I, his loving Momma, who will always embrace him despite his faults, (but who didn’t expect them to start so soon), ended up doing most of the holding.

I am assured he will grow out of it, so I thought it prudent to document this, his first true gift to the world. Everyone remembers a baby’s first words, first steps. And as with many firsts, I as a mother can’t wait to share in yet another one that lay some fifteen-plus years down the road: sharing this story with his first girlfriend.


  1. I can't stop laughing! Colin is definitely his father's son :) I know Keith must be bursting at the seams with pride.

    Miss ya! Jen

  2. At Greg's aunt's funeral, Sawyer was quiet through the whole service until the benediction at the end during which he ripped a fart that literally rang throughout the chapel. At least the funeral ended with a laugh.

    At six months, he is much better. But sometimes when people turn around in a store at the sound I feel like someone blaming it on the dog: "No... really... it was the baby!"

  3. Aaahh, he is truly what we affectionately term in our house:
    Son of Aircrew! ;-D

    Kath B.


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