I’m linking up with Mommy Two Cents and Chosen Chaos for Ghosts of Blogging Past, posting a link to a blog entry from my first week of blogging. Click on the image to read some of the other blogs who are joining up for this one.
I haven’t been blogging very long, so this post, about my husband, is from the summer. This is the post that made him ask, after getting multiple texts from his friends about the content of my blog, WHAT ARE YOU WRITING ABOUT ME? I’m not sure he’s actually read it himself, yet. Here it is!
This blog is not about farts. If you are a fart-lover, I regret to inform you that this isn’t going to be chock full of anecdotes regarding gaseous emissions. However. There is one special fart that does belong here, as it ties in nicely with the topics of sleeping and waking.
While we were dating, I do not recall my husband being much of a farter. Nothing note-worthy, anyway. Once we got married, though, it was like someone turned that lever parallel to the pipe and let the natural gas flow. Usually after an emission, especially a nice loud one, my husband will look at me with an impish grin, and I will look back, repulsed, roll my eyes and say, “That’s gross”. This is our routine. In fact, sometimes my husband will just say, “That’s gross” for me, in a mocking, high-pitched voice. At least he knows how I feel. However, early in the morning, while I am still buried under my piles of blankets, I hear a different kind of fart. It has a different timbre. It is longer in duration. Much longer. It sounds slightly forced, but nothing painful. It’s like the equivalent of a loud yawn. And this is the indication that my husband is going to get out of bed. There is usually about a 5-10 minute window where he checks the news or Facebook on his phone, and then he arises.
I’m not even sure he knows that I know he does this. Keep in mind, while he bounds out of bed, full of enthusiasm for the day, I am curled up in a fetal position, blankets tucked around me tightly, head buried in my pillow. I may or may not be groaning a bit, in despair. Each night, the sheets on my side of the bed become twisted and ripped from the mattress, so I am laying directly on it (sidebar: this means that my cat, who sleeps at my feet, is also laying directly on the mattress and then my husband gets mad that there will be cat hair on it. Sigh. I can’t help what I do in my sleep!) My hand is poised to hit the snooze button so I can avoid the inevitable torture of placing my feet on the floor. I am so exhausted at this point, that I don’t believe I have ever had the energy to respond to his vaporous alarm clock, I’ve never told him that I named this special little guy. And I certainly have never told him that even though my face has a scowl, my eyes are squeezed shut, and my garbled response to anything he asks me is completely incomprehensible, that, for some reason, that sound makes me smile. Well, at least on the inside. That sound reminds me that he is such a better morning person than I am and I know that it makes him happy to greet the day with his flatulence. And that makes my heart happy, too. That’s true love, right there.