The Evolution of Farting...

   I think I fall under the category of "typical woman" when it comes to farting. I really don't like it and I avoid doing it at all costs.

And then I got married......:)

You know how lots of random people give you marriage advice when you're engaged?
"Don't go to bed angry."
"Be friends first."
Someone forgot this one most vital piece of advice.
"Men fart, A LOT"

  Early into our marriage, my husband told me story after story of all the times he had to hold in farts while we were dating. In fact, he even had a designated "fart spot" outside my door where he would let loose after our dates and relieve some awful gas. He even told about one time he thought he could let it out before I got to his car and then panicked when I came out earlier than he expected. He had a nice little bomb waiting for me, but lucky for me, it dissipated before I got there.
  Poor man. I had no clue. The things we do for love, eh?
  So that's how it started. I grew up hating farting and then I married someone who had to fart...occasionally. "Its ok," I thought, "he's really good about hiding them. So I think I'll be ok."
Now, if I sound like a fart snob, its because I AM! And of the worst variety too. I will guilt trip you to my heart's content if you fart bomb during my movie....or my car ride...or my shopping trip.
This is how I feel when my husband farts:

ALL men have a secret agenda to get their wives to accept and embrace their farting habits. So after a year or so, my husband and I's conversations started evolving when it came to farting. Let me show you.

STEP ONE:
He asks you to fart for him because he thinks its cute, like so:

 I refused. There was no way I was going to fart in front of him.
And then this happened.
About two weeks after being married, we rode tripped to Pennsylvania to see my parents. My dad, who is diabetic, always keeps yummy sugar-free treats stashed in the cupboard above the microwave. One night, I decided to raid it and found a small bag of sugar-free Reese's cups. "Score!" I thought to myself. (I know, SHAME, right? Stealing from a sick man....)
I ate the WHOLE BAG.
Yup.
Blame it on the birth control but I was craving chocolate something fierce and ate every single Reese's cup. "Not a problem," I thought to myself, "I'll just buy him some more tomorrow." And then it happened. We were getting ready for bed and my stomach starting punching me in the face. I felt like someone was stabbing me with lasers, and pitchforks, and ninja knives all at the same time.
   I asked my husband if he would come upstairs and lie down with me because I didn't feel good. After lying down for a few minutes, I was in SEVERE agony. You would have thought I was in labor or something. It was that bad. I whined and cried to my husband.
"What's wrong? What happened?" He kept asking. But I didn't want to tell him that I stole my Dad's favorite candy. Finally, I broke down and admitted the felony and my husband just started laughing. And laughing some more.
"Babe," he said, "don't you know that artificial sugar gives you really, REALLY bad gas?? You've probably got enough trapped gas in your gut right now to cause some serious damage. You need to just let it out."
"No way!" I said, " I am NOT farting in front of you."
But, as the pain wore on, I finally decided I would do anything for relief and I tried letting a fart out.
Nothing happened.
I tried again. Still nothing.
"Please don't let me poop my pants, please don't let me poop my pants. We've only been married two weeks. I think he could still get in annulled. This CAN'T happen."
"Let me help you, " he said. Because men are experts on all things farting. They really are. I think they get a merit badge for it in Scouts.

"Okay," I said.
He started pressing hard on my abdomen and out popped a fart like someone uncorked a bottle.
I groaned in relief.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "but there's still more in there."
Needless to say, we spent the next half an hour pushing and farting, and laughing hysterically because we could hear my parents outside the room trying to decide if they should come in a help or not.
"Newlyweds....!" my Dad said. And I heard him laugh and walk away.
So that happened. But I STILL wouldn't fart in front of Jess if I could avoid it.

STEP TWO:
They congratulate you on your farts.
"Good one, honey!"
"Nice out!"
"You feel better now, don't you"
   You almost feel some sort of camaraderie. Like you're part of a special club now. The man club. And occasionally you have some bad ones, but your husband laughs it off and gets over it.

And then you get pregnant..............



STEP THREE:
They experience the game changer: Prego Farts
"Story, please?" You say? I thought you'd never ask. :)

  A few days ago, I was enjoying a little morning nap. I was alone in our room, and felt a little extra pressure in my gut.
"No biggie, " I thought. "Jess is out in the kitchen. I can let one rip and he'll never know!"
So I did.
But something wasn't right....
    You know how most farts you can just wave away? Well this one wasn't leaving. It was taking up residence in our sheets. I mean like BUILDING A SUMMER HOME in our blankets.
   "Oh no! What if Jess comes in? I'll just cover it with some blankets just in case."
 In the process of doing so, however, I created some sort of FART TACO. One layer of blanket folded over a nasty, nasty fart. It didn't get rid of it. It just stored it for later.... I forgot about it and continued enjoying my little nap. Then I heard our door open. My husband peeked his head in and smiled at me. Then, without warning, he made a giant leap towards the bed. Destination? My fart taco!! It was like everything was in slow motion.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" I thought in my mind as he flew through the air. It wouldn't have been so bad it he had just landed and then rolled over. But instead, he did what we all do in our beds in the morning.
He nuzzled.
Shoved his face in my fart taco and nuzzled it like a new born baby kitten and releasing the poison gas back into the air.
I closed my eyes, cringing, and waited for his response....
He slowly raised his head. An expression of fear, mixed with shock covered his face.
"Honey??" he said, quietly...."I think Aiden pooped in our bed."

And there it was. My escape plan.
Just at that exact moment, my sweet toddler toddled happily into our room and stood at the bottom of our bed, smiling. "Scha ba ja gge ga scho ma ma, BALL?" He said. It was as if on cue. Like he knew I needed him. Like his chances for ever getting another sibling rested on whether or not he would take the fall for this. He looked up at me, with his big, brown eyes as if to say, "You're not pinning this on me, Momma. You dealt it, YOU deal with it."
   But why SHOULDN'T I blame it on him? It would be so easy. And he owes me one after painting his carpet with poop he found in a left-over diaper a few days earlier.
"What to do, what to do??" ...I thought for a few moments.
"Honey," I finally managed to squeak out, "that was mine, actually. I mean...um...I don't know WHAT I ate last night but, phew! The baby has gas, right? Right...?"
I waited for a high five, or a "Nice out, babe"....nothing.
Instead, I got a nice half smile, like a "I'm just gonna not say anything and not hurt your feelings" kind-of-smile all women get from their husbands when they are pregnant.
And then he slowly got off the bed and walked out of the room like someone who had been injured in the war.

So there you have it. The game changer. You better believe I have NOT been asked to fart and definitely have not been congratulated on anything I have produced since then.
The evolution of farting.... For you newlyweds out there, the next time your husband asks you to fart just reply, "Just you wait....you'll be sorry!"

MERRY CHRISTMAS< EVERYONE!
PS> I would love to hear your fart stories! Leave them in the comments section, if you're feeling brave!





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