The last time my husband let one rip, I thought I could taste it.  It not only singed my nose hairs, I’m pretty sure it impaired my sense of smell for at least a few days. 

You would think I would be used to it by now:  the smell.  I’m not.  Not at all.  In fact, it gets me every time.   My eyes water, my nose runs, and I start coughing – so much so that I gag and honesty, there are time when gagging leads to throwing up  in my mouth just a little bit.  I know one day, a little bit of barf  is going to turn into a lot of bit of barf and I hope I’m near a bathroom when it does.  Although, the porcelain potty isn’t completely necessary.  I’ve turned a perfectly innocent plant into a puke pot and while that situation wasn’t ideal, it did the job. 

My husband chuckles when he blows a windy – that’s what my grandma calls passing gas.  I remember when I was a kid, I would tattle every time my older brother would blow one near me.  My grandma would sit him down on her floral printed couch and ask, “Did you blow a windy in her face?”  I always giggled to myself when she asked it.  I had never heard any one use that term when referring to the bodily function.  I still haven’t.

David doesn’t laugh because he does it on purpose.  In fact, he goes out of his way to walk out of the room if he knows he has to commit the diabolical deed.  He snickers because if one does pop out unexpectedly, my reaction is so violent.  He admits his gas is smelly, but denies it’s as bad as the gass his two boys pass.  Here’s the thing he doesn’t realize:  not only to my two toddlers look exactly like daddy, they smell like him too.

David gets a little grossed out when we go to check on our boys before we go to bed and they are soaked in sweat.  If you didn’t know any better, you would think they were having a pool party in their rooms instead of sleeping.

“It’s kind of gross they are so sweaty,” David says to me nearly every night. 

And nearly every night I respond, “That’s how sweaty you get.”

Or Davd mentions, “Look how much they slobber.  They soak through their pillow case every night.”

And I reply, “You do, too.”

He doesn’t believe me.  I guess waking up in the middle of the night because he drenched the sheets with sweat and slobber isn’t enough proof for him.   But it is for me.  I see it.  I smell it. I live it.  I’m just a girl living in their stinky world.