They actually don't smell so hot, and they often sound just like adult farts - not exactly appealing qualities. But I am amazed that I have created (with a little help from my husband and modern medicine) two little beings who have adorable little round butts and actual farts that emanate from them.
The other day, I was nursing Rhys, when all of a sudden he stuck his bum out, arched his back, pulled down his little arm, and with a shockingly boyish little grunt, he let out a solid "spllllt" and then promptly resumed his nursing.
I am so in awe over the beauty of my babies' farting that I've recounted this story to at least 10 people. I'm aware that most people don't want to hear about the gassy secretions of my spawn. I suppose that by continuing to share toot stories, I'm really just refusing to allow others' lack of enthusiasm to dampen my day.
It has, however, occurred to me that perhaps I should not take such great pride in the flatulence of my children. Since I'm breastfeeding, I'm pretty sure that every last Rhys or Quin fart is actually a reflection of me. It's as though they're farting on my behalf. And lord knows I would NEVER dream of passing gas in proper company. Or improper, for that matter. In fact, I'm actually physically incapable of passing gas. But my babies, they tell all my secrets.
"Blllllllleeet. Mommy had broccoli last night."
"Flllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooooot. Mommy had beans."
And now I'm sitting here and thinking how the sophistication level of this post is simply pointing out that my lack of sleep is leading to totally regressive and juvenile behavior.