Gas

Why beat around the bush? We all do it. Fart. Pass gas. Pfoot. I've heard it called many things but there's no denying it happens. Interestingly, I didn't know much about flatulence until I got to college. We didn't talk about gas in our house growing up. If someone let something slip it was completely ignored, smelly or not. I honestly don't remember letting anything slip until my college roommate opened my eyes to the world of passing gas. She laughed at me when I told her I didn't do that. I was mildly hurt at the time, but thinking about how much I "do that" now...it's absolutely hilarious to think I didn't fart in my first 18 years! Of course, maybe that's why there's so much now...

Anyway, enough about me. This is actually about Gracie. My sweet little girl knows nothing of etiquette yet. She absolutely loves dresses and purses but wants to wear them while she drives her jeep and wrestles with her big brother. So, when it comes to passing gas she doesn't say "excuse me" discreetly after. Instead she usually announces, "That was me!" She'll tell us what it smells like, usually a skunk. She'll tell us what it sounded like, maybe like a trumpet.

Last night, my poor little girl was full of gas. She stopped eating her snack because her tummy was so bloated it hurt her. When she finally started farting, and feeling better, she'd run from wherever she was to celebrate her accomplishment! My favorite one was when she ran through the house cheerfully yelling, "I sounded like a horse! My fart went fffsshllsfff!" Now I attempted to spell that...but know that I was not at all successful. That vowel-less fake word is meant to sound something like a horse snorting, you know...when they blow air between their lips and it vibrates and they shake their heads...that noise. Gracie ran through the house to tell me she sounded like a horse's snort. It was very funny, especially since she was relieving that abdominal pressure that made her tummy hurt. I was quite proud of her.

Next time you relieve a little pressure yourself, take a page from Gracie's book, and revel in your toots instead of blaming the dog.