My precious, beautiful, just five-and-a-half week old little girl, the light of my life and center of my universe, will not stop fucking farting. She will also not stop eating, either – two things that I suspect may be linked in some fundamental way.
I don’t know what the hell is going on in Little Miss Ass Blaster’s colon, but it certainly can’t be pretty by any stretch of the imagination. Apparently my daughter is an overachiever already, considering the sheer volume of methane she’s been releasing from her tiny little butthole. Invariably these massive gaseous emanations will occur while she’s being fed; maybe it’s the formula we’re using, but it seems like as she’s sucking milk down one hole she’s making room by flatulating from the other.
Judging by how much she’s been taking at feeding time, she most definitely needs the room. Little Butt Trumpet has been swilling down something like four ounces at a time. In other words she’s eating and farting like a god damned frat boy. I can’t tell you how strange it is to be holding a child whose ass rumbles that much. The number of phantom poops we’ve had has been astronomical – the vile, paint-peeling stenches creeping out of my child’s diminutive asshole have been enough to make the cats scatter to the far reaches of the house, but when we unseal what we think is going to be an incredibly violated diaper, there’s nothing there. It’s like she poops so hard that it compacts itself into a single molecule so massive that it warps time and space around it, slipping through a wormhole and out into some other dimension where the universe’s lost socks end up.
I suppose I should be grateful, considering the public health emergency my daughter precipitates when she finally does fill a diaper. We get plenty of warning signs before the bomb gets dropped, too; the little shit machine begins to grunt in 4/4 time, clenching her tiny fists and raising her feet into the air as she screws her face up into a rictus of concentration. It would be absolutely adorable if the end result wasn’t the bio-hazardous equivalent of napalm.
By the way, I’m leaving out the story of how my darling, precious daughter actually projectile pooped in my mouth. You’re welcome.