Tuesday, June 3, 2008


Bottom burps. Letting Fluffy off the chain. My Granddad called them trumps (as in, trumpet/bugle sounding, I guess).

Whatever you call 'em, we all do 'em. Farts. I went through a phase where I just had to claim they were better out than in, during pregnancy, for it wreaked too much havoc on what little room my intestines had to share the space with all that hot air. Steve, at the time, resorted to calling me Tootie.

I am pleased rather ashamed to say, I have been known over the course of her life so far to occasionally let one go around the LGBB. Up until a couple of months ago, I was able to get away with it pretty much, with a cursory, "Mummy dropped something!" exclamation if she looked around. I thought it was a good decoy. Steve thought it was immoral. Now, though, I get a very (parodied) alarmed "Wha'wazzAT??!!" from her if she hears me. My days of blowing my own bugle in her presence are finished.

Despite all this, I'll have you know I don't encourage either mouth or bottom burps without a form of pardon. Tonight at the dinner table, the LGBB made the most raucous sound in her nappy. Wide-eyed, her father and I gazed down at our little wondrous creation to see what she would offer as a "Whoops, did that noise come out of me? I do beg your pardon, kind sirs."

Instead, our daughter met our stares, a slow grin spreading across her cheeky chops. "Pardon?" I requested. And you know what she did? Without a word, beaming from ear to ear, she gave me the thumbs up. And then for good measure, she turned to her proud father and gave him a thumbs-up too. Just one more thing we have absolutely NO idea where she got it from.

My heart swells.

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