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Get Outta Mah Belly

And no, I'm not talking about the baby. Yet. What I am talking about is baby's not-often-talked-about sidekick: Gas.

Nobody ever tells you the weird day-to-day stuff of pregnancy. Sure, they'll give you the half-hour play-by-play of their excruciating birth, Caligula-inspired stories of episiotomies and Ceseareans, torrid tales of cracked and bleeding nipples, the depths of post-partum depression and a thousand other agonies - but nowhere do they mention the really practical stuff, like how to look simultaneously innocent and disgusted after tooting in a crowded department store.

Actually, I'd be thrilled to toot about now, pretty much anywhere. Instead of shriveling in shame, I'd jump around and cheer, pumping my fist in the air and yelling, "Did you hear that?! Whooee! Niiiiice one, huh?!" Because in my particular universe, at this particular moment in pregnancy, relief is spelled f-a-r-t.

Rub my belly at your own risk, bub. I'm sure this thrills my in-laws who are coming over for dinner tonight. But facts are facts, and I'm telling you that while my stomach's getting bigger, only 1/10 of that is baby-related. The rest would load up a hot air balloon.

It's uncomfortable, occasionally agonizing and mostly, incredibly disappointing. I mean here I am, fully loaded and finally ready to compete at The Varmint's level - and pffft. Nothin'. My uranium's enriched but I've no method of deployment.

Dammit.

Anyway, I better get going. I need to head out and buy some new scented candles - just in case the winds of fortune change just as the dinner guests arrive.

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >