My Fart-Rendering Loss

“Everybody likes their own braaaand.”

That’s what my sister-in-law told me her guy friends used to say about enjoying the smell of their own farts back in high school. She mimicked them in this slow, dorky voice, laced with her signature lisp, and capped off the quote with one of her famous giggle-snorts.

Though we rolled our eyes and snickered whenever we spoke of it, I’ll admit now that I always secretly agreed with the immature hicks from the sticks of our shared home state of Minnesota.

You may be wondering…do I still feel the same way?

Yah, sure, you betcha!

…And not only do I like the sulfurous stench of my own farts; I also take great delight in the emissions of my soon-to-be-six-month-old baby. When my adorable little fart knocker starts rocking from side-to-side on his back with his chubby, stubby legs bent up in the air—especially after having been still for an extended period of time—I lean in close and anxiously await the warm, sumptuous aroma that’s soon to emanate from his popping, padded bottom.

I realize it may disgust some readers when I say this, but um…YUM.

I like to imagine a fluffy brown stink-cloud surrounding his little bundle of a body, like Pig Pen from Peanuts, or the colored smoke that curls out of a 4th of July stink bomb.  You can think that’s gross if you want, but I find it very endearing.  He’s my sweet little stinker, and I consider it pure bliss to be able to scoop him up, snuggle him close, and savor the decadence of his flatulence.

I feel a similar affection for his breastmilk poop. And my eyelids don’t merely flutter at the thick, creamy, subtly-sweet smell of it, but at its appearance as well.  While I don’t enjoy sopping up the soggy mess of a major blow-out, it’s still really exhilarating to open his diaper to find a gooey mass of molten gold buttering his bare bottom.

Now that I’ve officially opened myself to being labeled a degenerate, I’ll explain that I wanted to write a little ode to my baby’s toots and poo because this half-year season of Rowen’s being exclusively breastfed has recently come to a close. While I’m hoping introducing him to baby food will equal a fuller tummy and longer stretches of sleep at night, I know from the experience of my firstborn that he’ll never stink quite the same, and that makes me sad.  The fragrance, the texture, the taste (just kidding!) of his excrement shall forevermore be tainted by the inclusion of solids into his diet.

Boo hoo. Sniff, sniff.

..Sniff, sniff. Sniff…sniff.  Where, oh, where, has the fragrance that faithfully filled my lungs for so long suddenly gone? I wish I could follow my nose, but alas, it shall only live on in my memory, which is why I chose to commemorate its glorious existence in this deliciously descriptive tribute (you’re welcome).

And with that being said, I bid you adieu. Or, perhaps more appropriately, apew.

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