Wednesday, March 3, 2010

It Wasn't Me

I love being a Dad. I love everything about it - except the stuff I've already complained about. Just forget I wrote all of that.

One of my favourite things is to hold Eve. Holding her in my arms or in one of the myriad carriers we have makes me feel really close to her. It makes me feel like a good Dad. It makes me feel like she knows I love her more than just about anything on the planet (insert sappy wife comment here).

But here's the thing I've learned about babies: they're gassy. And it's not just a little gas. It's not an, "oops, did anybody hear that?" type of gas. It's a fire truck barreling through a city street, canons shooting in rapid succession, trumpet exploding kind of gas.

It's really friggin' funny. And that might be because I have the maturity of an infant, but let's not point fingers here.

Where we might be inclined to point fingers, and this is a serious thought that's gone through my head, is when I'm walking down a happening street or in a quiet store with baby strapped to chest and she lets 'er go. The decibel level her pint-sized butt reaches is epic. There is NO way people can ignore it.

So if people can't ignore it, can I blame it on the baby? I don't think so. No one in their right mind is going to sincerely say, "oh yeah, baby farts - epic. Got it."

I'm screwed. I'm either going to be the jerk dad that blames his baby for everything or the stinky guy that's given up on being a respectful member of society now that he has a child (and why shouldn't I, I ask).

Fart away, baby. Fart away.


  1. I would believe you.

    Also, baby farts are hilarious. My favorite is when Ada nurses and farts her way through it. *suck*suck*pffft*