Unless you have been pregnant or lived in a house with a pregnant woman, there is no earthly way you’re going to be able to relate to what I’m about to say here. All the same, I’m going to attempt to usher you into a side of pregnancy that very few books and fewer women are willing to open up about. And that my friends, is pregnant flatulence.
When a pregnant woman cuts the cheese, there is an unimaginable, almost indescribable stench that follows in its aftermath that is almost ungodly. To put it succinctly, it’s as though 40,000 items of food died in her bowels and were stored there for 40,000 years only to be released in a torrent of gas so thick, one might be tempted to whip out the closest Samurai sword to beat back the foe from whence it came. A pregnant woman’s fart is a monster. A green, gassy, gross monster.
I guess I’ll have to do a little self incrimination here to show you the magnitude of what we’re dealing with.
I’m what, 19 weeks preggers? The farts came on me about 3 weeks ago. And since, then, my poor husband has been assailed and affronted with smells he has not had to confront for years. Febreze is a staple in our home. Lysol, quite frankly, can’t cut the mustard.
Four night’s ago, Marshall went to church for Friday night prayer. He returned home a little after 1 o’clock in the morning, high off the Spirit and revitalized to tackle the challenges of this world. When he got to the bottom of the stairs leading to our bedroom, he paused.
He walked up the stairs cautiously, fearing whatever mess he’d have to clean up. Upon entering our bedroom where I was slumbering peacefully, he was struck by the realization of what had happened when he got close to our comforter.
“Malaka!” he whispered harshly, rousing me from sleep. “Have you been farting??!?!”
“Mmmm?” I replied sleepily. “Yes.”
I rolled over and let another one rip, confirming what had been taking place all night.
Marshall frantically turned on the ceiling and box fans, which are generally dormant till summer. The whirl of these electronic appliances was followed by three hurried “shhh, shhhhh, shhhhhh’s!!!”. I’m guessing that was the Febreze. He undressed, got into bed and cried “Dear GOD!” one more time before turning his back to me to go to sleep. Lifting the sheets and comforter had released the brunt of the flatulent material hiding in the dark, like a coiled viper waiting to attack.
My sister, who is also halfway through her pregnancy, has shared what it’s like for her boyfriend when she cuts loose.
“His eyes water and he gasps for breath,” she told me with great pride.What else is there to say? That’s essentially possessing the power to render a man immobile with one squeeze of your butt cheeks. I chuckled with pride and admiration too.
I’d say the only gaseous substance that can even come close to the dreadfulness of preggo-fart is sulfur. And I’m willing to get into a fart off with anyone who’d like to prove me wrong.