Allison's farts used to be the exact opposite of Toby's SBDs. They were fun little toots without any incriminating odor. And they were doubly amusing coming from something so sweet and small.
Most of the time, Jerry and I just burst out laughing.
But now they're not so funny anymore. Who knew a sprinkle of dehydrated rice flakes could create so much intestinal turmoil?
Jerry was the first to change a real diaper. One with "food" expulsion. And I'm pretty sure he used the adjectives "horrendous" and "chunky." Then, in all seriousness, he discussed the idea of installing a hanger above her changing table and using it to store a high-grade gas mask. One strong enough to stand up to natural disasters -- which her diapers are quickly becoming.
I brushed him off. Surely he must be exaggerating. It couldn't possibly be that bad.
But now I think his idea might have some merit. Late last night, while I was feeding Allison, she wiggled and farted. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a silly sound that made me smile.
Then it hit me.
Oh the horror.
It smelled like Jerry had given her a bucket of KFC and followed it up with a bottle of nitrous oxide. If there had been a candle burning, the house would've exploded.
The worst part was, I couldn't go anywhere. She had me cornered. What I wanted to do was scream, "HOLY GOD, LITTLE MISS!" and run for some fresh air.
What happens when we start giving her actual food? You know, stuff that doesn't pour out of a box and resemble faux snow for a miniature Christmas village.
Regardless, I refuse to give her asparagus until she's old enough to use a toilet.