Mac's First Dutch Oven - and no, I don't mean the cooking utensil

My dear little boy, young, fresh faced, and innocent of the ways of the world had his first eye-opening experience yesterday... or should I say his first nostril-burning, brain cell destroying, eye watering experience. For those of you with a weak stomach read no further. This is about to get if not graphic then a little gross :)

But first some history.

When we were little my dad worked shift work. One of our (my brother and I's) favorite things to do when my dad was on midnight shift was having a chance to "tuck him in" and say goodnight (morning?) to him. What we would often do was sneak into his bedroom and hide under the blankets at his feet. My mother would come in to kiss him goodnight and pretend she didn't know we were there. We would be moving and giggling the entire time but (like all good mommies) she would ask my dad "Phil, have you seen the kids?" *giggle giggle* "I can't seem to find them anywhere!!" *giggle giggle* "Wow Phil, you're legs sure look big..." Anyhow, you get the picture. Every now and then though, my dad would "let one rip" while we under the blankets, and then proceed to hold them down, eliminating the ability to escape. That's when I learned I could hold my breathe for a very very long time. I didn't learn till much later - in fact, it was after I married my husband - that there was a name for this form of cruel and unusual torture: the Dutch Oven.

But I digress.

Last night, Harry and I were too exhausted to do ANYTHING other than lay in bed.  My stomach was killing me because, like all good patients, I was not heeding the doctors instructions to take it easy for two weeks.  I took it easy for one week and thought that would be plenty. Apparently doctors actually know what they are talking about sometimes and I should have listened. But that's not the point.  Mac climbed into our bed and started goofing off under the covers. I went and got him a flashlight and he was having a grand old time. In fact, I have a video I can post on here that I think is hilarious.

This went on for probably half an hour. Then IT happened. My dear, sweet, loving husband let one rip. A long one. A ripe one. A noisy one. I don't know if it was instinct or the desire for self preservation but I was out from under the covers and out of that bed faster than you can say fart. My poor dear son however was not. I think it took a minute for the smell to reach him. Then all of a sudden all I could see was a wild scrambling under the blanket and I could hear his little voice yelling "NO NO NO NO NO!!!".   Poor little guy.

I'm sure when he's older and married with children he'll pass on the family legacy though, so I can't feel too bad for him.


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