A few posts back, Scott made this heartwarming comment:
"...this blog is probably one of the best gifts a mother can give her future son."
He's right. A lovingly and thoughtfully crafted chronicle of Samson's first few months--the trials and tribulations, the milestones and overwhelming emotions. The anecdotes, the pictures, everything. Hopefully, Samson will look back on this blog one day and smile as he reads through this tastefully written account of his early days, full of cute and adorable and not so much embarrassing.
Until now. This post will blow all of that out of the water.
My son farts. Yes, we all fart, and little babies do so much involving bodily fluids I think farting is the least of our worries. But it's the way this kid farts, the SOUND BARRIER BREAKING LOUDNESS of his farts. He's a teeny tiny little boy and he farts like a grown man, like a frat boy, like a professional wrestler.
It. Is. Freaking. Adorable.
Especially since they're odorless. Just really, really loud. I can recall one night when he was about 3 weeks old, still sleeping in our room, and his fart woke me out of a dead sleep. Louder than Nanna snoring, louder than the squeaky floorboards his farts are.
Future Samson, I ask your forgiveness. I tried not to write about this, and I got through three months without mentioning it on the blog (unlike your father who has told every guest we've had so far, "You should hear him fart! It's really loud! He farts like a MAN!"). But tonight before I put you to bed, after your massage and during your bottle, you let one rip so loud that the cat came running from the other room to see what all the hubub was about. The dog lifted her head and looked at you, concerned and scared. Were you about to explode? Should she take cover?
And you never even opened your eyes.
I'm sorry, but it had to be done. You're just too cute, and it's just too much a part of who you've been so far for me to leave it out of these entries. I'll make it up to you by getting you that hover bike you've been asking for.