MY FART MADE MY BOY CRY

It seems rather ironic that I have written on numerous occasions about the horrid putrid fart or odours that have emanated from my son’s nappy. Well, today…that all came back to bite me on the bum (so to speak).

We were awakened around 6:30am by a sweet cherub face who insisted on crawling into bed with us. Mumma sleeps near the door, giving her an uninterrupted pathway to the ensuite bathroom (which is an absolute necessity for a heavily pregnant woman), but it also means our boy needs crampons, rock climbing rope and possibly a Tibetan Sherpa to help him climb the mountain into our bed.

Finding the task a little difficult to mount, he decided upon a much easier, but even worse option…to just climb in under the covers instead of going over the top. A decision that almost cost him his life!

For, on the Dada-side of the mountain, a great avalanche of sound erupted. The kind of rumble that had not been heard since dinosaurs trampled the earth. And accompanying it was probably the very stench that caused said dinosaurs to become extinct in the first place. There was something incredibly primeval about it. The kind of stench that even burned my own eyes, and it was me that did it!

Mumma tried to sound the alarm to warn Indy not to go down under the covers, but it was already too late. She pulled the covers back, unleashing the unruly beast unto the rest of the entire room, the ‘putrid Poltergeist’ was out and Indy was choking and dry-retching like Arnold Swartzenegger on the surface of Mars in Total Recall. He burst into tears as he cried out, “Oh, baby poo-poo! Baby poo-poo!”

I love that he tried to take the credit, but (for want of a better word), I had to come ‘clean’. “No, bubba. It was Dada. Dada did a really, really, really bad peeyooo!” Although admission may have helped relieve his guilt, there was no relief or escape from the symptoms we experienced. Mumma managed to haul him out from the covers and plopped his head near our pillows for breath. A third time now, he coughed and retched. We literally thought he was going to vomit right there on the bed!

In fact, all three of us could have. The air was toxic, like ‘Agent Orange’ toxic, and I swear I had nose-hairs and ass-hairs before I let go. But my poor son was still crying and repeatedly calling, “Poo-poo! Poo-poo!” Tears spilled from his stinging eyes as the stench threatened to strangle the life out of him.

And when I looked at Mumma, she had tears too. And so did I. Partly from the ‘wafting dead’, but mostly from the spontaneous laughter we both shared in response to Indy’s horrified reaction to my heinous ‘War Crime’ against humanity.

Oh, the indignity (and possibly the ‘indigestible’)? Truly, it was so bad I had to check whether or not the ‘air’ was the least of my worries. I kissed Mumma goodbye, in case pulling the sheet back to look could be my last defining moment on earth alive. I whipped it back, fully expecting to see the rotted corpse of an undigested molten lava turd, who’d shat the rotted corpse of an undigested molten lava turd, who’d shat the….on and on and on like some never ending fractal faeces.

Thankfully, and to my absolute total surprise, there was not. And as I made my way along my somewhat obstructed pathway to the ensuite bathroom, I felt as low as the dark cloud of noxious gas that surrounded us.

I’ve used the term ‘died in the ass’ many times before, but this time I actually ‘lived’ it.

Sorry, son.

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