**Disclaimer: This post is puerile, mephitic and dealing with the pre-scatological. Proceed at your own risk.**
(also, with the exception of the last word in that previous sentence, which I committed to memory thanks to many readings of Swift for an undergrad literary class, the aforementioned words are courtesy of a Word of the Day subscription that I receive each day via e-mail. You should sign up. It totally makes you into a walking GRE advertisement).
With the introduction of new foods comes a not-unexpected side effect: gas.
And it turns out that I have not outgrown my fourth-grade sense of humor, because no matter how hard I try, I can't stop the laughter bubbling inside me from exploding (not, you might note with juvenile irony, unlike a fart).
Now Anika thinks that passing gas is yet another opportunity for giggles. Which is cute -- I want to raise a girl who is proud of herself, flatulence and all.
Let's just hope she doesn't turn into one of those people who has to repeatedly blame the dog. Especially since we don't have a dog. That would be awkward.
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