I swear, Frankie farts so loudly she could shake a budgie from its perch.
Think of cannonfire. Think of the growl of a leopard. Think of Burns Night fireworks. You get the drift.
I am not exactly 'quick' when it comes to understanding bodily functions. This was never more evident than my 'ignorance-is-bliss' approach to pregnancy. I failed to realise there was a wee one growing inside of me like damp in a Manchester apartment for 17 weeks. This ignorance has continued into parenthood. Frankie's farts, it turns out, are no laughing matter. My gut instinct should have been more in tune with her gut activities.
We still don't know what's causing the poppet such discomfort, but I'm having a heck of a time trying to remain calm while she writhes about in pain. With every kick of distress she dents my soul as though it were flimsy metal.
Never in my life have I been so conscious of fecal matter, but I find myself examining Frankie's poo with a Dulux colour chart. Is it Yellow Ochre, or Pugin Yellow? Is it the consistency of toothpaste? Does it bubble and froth?
Lactose Intolerance was the first diagnoses handed to me by my GP. Subsequently, all chocolate, butter, milk and other such goodies have been banned from my diet (ahh, the sacrifices we make for our children). I was told to expect an improvement in roughly a week. Well, things have gone from bad to worse. She's in so much pain she's literally ripping apart her swaddles so she can try to kick out whatever is trapped inside of her.
Frankie's showing no sign of improvement and I'm left wondering whether it might just be that "catch-all" colic. Who knows? All I can say for sure is that my perfectly lovely child turns into a Tasmanian Devil every time she needs to do a #2, and that just doesn't seem normal.
For now, I'll hope for the best and let my little one go for gold in the fart-olympics she seems to be training for.
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