I have the toots. Those coming from nowhere, non-beans, non-broccoli toots that surprise you at how quickly your stomach starts to turn into more knots than a dominatrix's headboard can handle. Last night, Handsome and I stayed awake until 2 am, and he thought it was the funniest thing how Mommy would be able to lift him off her lap with the sheer force of butt blow-outs. They had some funk to them too, the kind that if you smelled near a diapered rear-end, you'd quickly find the nearest sandblaster and charcoal to take care of the mess and odor. His toots are funny, and we're trying to teach him the Bubba saying, "I toot. I fart!" If you haven't had a good laugh in a while, get a 2 or 3 year old to repeat that again and again in their little singsong voices. Best to do it in church or at Grandma's retirement party, and see how many other people lose the carefully cultivated adult face and giggle along with the tobbler, as Bubba calls the little ones.

I don't remember with the other pregnancies this feeling of complete and utter lack of normalcy with my digestive system. When I was 30 weeks along with Bubba, I was put on a low sodium diet. No apple juice, sodas, orange cheese, etc. It was very bland and very boring, but kept me from going into preeclampsia a lot sooner than I did. I had problems with my vision and went into the Labor and Delivery ward for observation at 38.5 weeks, and was told I had to be on a soft diet. I was so frustrated with that until a nurse said the doc on duty considered fries and milkshakes soft foods. I sent Mower out about five times in 36 hours to get me fast food, and was loving every tiny molecule of precious salt and fat, until I was induced and the labor pains started on top of gas pains. This current pregnancy has that quality to my stomach, like there are waves of feeling full on top of waves of feeling nauseous on top of waves of pain.

Pumpkin, poor Pumpkin, gets a look of inquiry and resignation when I blow the fabric off the couch. She's not used to being around such a proficient farter, someone who does so in such quantity and with such stench that the sulfur factory 100 miles away calls and asks me to change direction so they don't get it full-force. You can see her nose hairs burning as she buries her face in a pile of Shih-Tzu dog crap to get a breath of fresh air.

Handsome seemed unaffected by the digestive civil war exploding within the confines of my enormous stomach. He loves the sound, but doesn't notice the smell that is changing everyone else's hair grey with streaks of glowing green. I almost feel bad subjecting his still-growing mind to the rancid odor emitted from my netherregion, but then he toots too and the smells compete to help us collect Mower's life insurance policy he doesn't know I have on him, just in case he gets a mistress or says something about escaping. I wouldn't ever think that farting would be a bonding experience with my son, but we're having a good time making the paint peel. Ah, that's the smell of a relaxed Saturday afternoon. Cheers!