And by baby toot, I mean adult sized toot emitted from a baby. My daughter is a champion tooter. Her flatulence could easily be mistaken for that of an adult male who has just consumed an entire case of beans washed down by a head of cabbage. They are loud and stinky and not even the slightest bit dainty. You would think a tiny little baby girl would emit gas that matched her tiny baby girlness. Like they should be made of rainbows and glitter dust and smell like cookies.
But no. Oh no. In public places when she lets one rip I am mortified, because I know anyone nearby must assume that the foghorn-like noise they just heard (followed of course by the smell) could not possibly come from that little infant. It must be the adult holding her, who clearly has no sense of shame. And it’s not like I can loudly exclaim “But it was the baby!” Because then I would only look more guilty. And who likes the person who blames things on a baby anyways?
I can only hope this is not a permanent attribute. When she is 14 it will no longer be charming and funny but rather humiliating and off-putting. And who knows? Maybe it is my fault. Perhaps my breast milk could be to blame, and I should start eliminating food from my diet until we find a culprit (although really if you look at any science based studies, it is seeming less and less likely that the food a mom eats causes tummy troubles in the baby). But her monster gas does not seem to cause her any discomfort for the most part, and it creates an endless source of entertainment for her parents (minus when out in public).
So for now I will let my daughter continue to toot like a frat boy. And I will share a video of it for all the world to see, knowing full well one day she will probably include this in her memoir under the chapter “Reasons Why My Mother Scarred Me for Life.”
So turn off the news for a few minutes and turn the volume way up. And just wait for the sweet, sweet sound of a baby toot.