This week is dedicated to farts and poop, and sometimes farts and poop together, which are the funniest. I have some really great stories in this genre (Is this a genre?). I feel it’s only fair that I share them.
I was about 800 weeks pregnant with G. If you’ve ever been incredibly pregnant, you know that constipation is a problem in the last few months. When you have a 7 pound fetus inside your abdomen, digestion slows to provide said fetus with every possible nutrient that can be sucked from what you eat. Also, the fetus makes himself comfortable and mashes your intestines and colon. This makes any passage of anything through those organs uncomfortable.
With infrequent bowel movements and general lower GI discomfort, if there’s a small possibility that you can muster up a fart, you take it. It doesn’t matter where you are, either. You do it in the library, at church, at a funeral… If you need to fart, you fart because the relief is worth any embarrassment.
Fortunately, this particular incident was in the comfort of my own bed because this fart contained about 2 days worth of gas build-up. The force behind it was massive, which made it loud.
The Husband and I were in bed. He was fast asleep and I, being 800 weeks pregnant, was trying to decide whether I wanted to sleep on my side or on my side, which usually took about an hour.
I felt the fart coming and was so excited to relieve any amount of abdominal pressure, even if it was just a little. I let it rip and was not disappointed. It was loud and longish and made my belly feel better.
The Husband sat straight up in bed:
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Did you just say my name?”
Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you just said my name and I woke up.”
“No, I farted and it said ‘Beerrrrrrrrr’ and you woke up.”
Annnnnd still, to this day, when someone farts, we say “Did you just say my name?” Because that will always be funny. Always.
And no. His name isn’t Bert.