Wow. What a weekend. Filled with fun, excitement and noxious fumes.

Well, at least two of the three.

Young Gertrude is having a bout with the vapors. Every movement, every twitch, every roll is followed by a loud report and a smell that could knock over a horse. For such a little body, she can produce an awful smell.

I guess I know she’s my daughter . . .

Yesterday we went to dinner with my family to celebrate the confirmation of my nieces Melissa and Christina (both looked so beautiful, poised and grown up it was hard to believe they were once the toddlers we called “Binker” and “Sissa”.) My sister was holding Gertrude and making her giggle when she said, “Whew. I think she’s got a full diaper! Something is stinky.” Gertrude giggled and I said I’d check it out.

The restaurant was too crowded and noisy to have heard Gertrude’s reverse raspberry, so I didn’t mention her current state of gastrointestinal weakness. I just didn’t have the heart to tell my sister that the cute little Pampered bottom she had just been patting had released mustard gas. I figured they were both having so much fun, why ruin it with the fact that my lovely daughter had broken a taboo and farted at her.

In my family, airborne fart particles are a way of life, but still a crime.

Her poor little belly hurts so much that’s she’s having trouble sleeping. We have to calm and soothe her until the bubble bursts and she can expel it. Between her and the cat, my room smells like a colostomy bag.

But she’s so pathetic. She grunts and whines and whimpers rolls around until she feels better. Because she needs nearly constant comfort, she’s been sleeping with us so her big sister gets a little sleep.

She’s restless though, so she flops back and forth, throwing her little sausage arms to and fro. (Side note: Where is fro?) Whenever she points her little bottom at me, I live in fear. I know it’s loaded and it could go off at any minute.

I’ve been walking around shell-shocked. I wonder, when will it strike? When will it hit? Will I survive?

Oh well. She’ll get hers. Just wait until she’s a teenager and she brings her first boyfriend over for dinner. I already have the menu planned.

Five-alarm chili.