Gas. Farts. Flatulence. Fluff-fluff. Poot. Plth. "Is that a trumpet in your pocket?", Wind. "Did you just sit on an elephant?" ... Need I go on?
There was a time when I held them all in. I literally stayed up an entire night so I wouldn't fall asleep and accidentally dutch-oven my then-boyfriend, now-husband. Those days have gone and left us for good, my friends. I hate to get all TMI on your asses (heh) but it's time to come clean (hee) and dish the real dirt. (ha!) Married people with babies let 'em rip. Shiyat. (knee-slap.)
Once upon a time I was very concerned with looking good and smelling good and keeping my bodily functions secret. I am still concerned with looking good and smelling good (sometimes) but somewhere around, oh, the third month of pregnancy I gave up on everything else. To hell with closing the bathroom door. We're all humans here. We know what happens on the toilet.
I have only been around my baby and have had little experience with other babies but I have a feeling that he isn't the only little dude with a brass band in his diaper. Am I right? Babies don't give a poop. They are punk rock. They enjoy butt-wiping and shuffle, shuffle, flap, flapping up and down the isles of Trader Joes.
Archer: Plthhhhhhhhhh plth plth plth plthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Me: "I swear that was my son. (awkward laugh) He is a gas machine."
They grunt and poop during funerals and pee whenever the hell they feel like it, ESPECIALLY on Mommy's nice Chloe out-on-the-town blouse. (Why! Why?)
So what if I have succumbed to the OM of bodily functions? I am still very much a lady. Seriously. Just ask Archer. He hangs with Momz in the bathroom and tears catalogs while I read Vogue.
I am standing here before you, GGC readers new and old to admit that I am not ashamed of the bod in all it's potty/dirtiness. No sir. One of the many gifts of motherhood is the gift of not giving a shit about shit and shit forevermoooooore....
Who's with me?