That Baby: Part 1 – Chapter 1

I am Mrs. Phillip Mackenzie.

Jadyn James Mackenzie.

Gosh, I love the way that sounds.

We came back from our amazing honeymoon, ready to move into our dream house.

Phillip unlocked the door and carried me over the threshold. Then, we started unpacking.

We’ve been unpacking all day, and we are tired, but I’m down in the basement, excitedly pulling the plastic off our gorgeous new sectional sofa. I’m practically in tears over how amazing it looks in the fabric I chose.

You know men.

They prefer function over form, and women typically will give up comfort for fashion. I mean, look at the way we contort our feet into fabulous shoes. Neither one of us had to compromise on this couch. It’s the perfect combination of style and comfort. I ordered it in the softest ultra suede, and it’s like lying on melted butter.

“I’m tired,” Phillip says, sliding down onto the new couch. “Moving is a lot of work.”

So, what is the very first thing Phillip decides to do on our couch?

Does he go over, lie down, look at me all sexy, and say, ?

No.

Does he run his hand across the gorgeous fabric and say, ?

No.

Does he comment on how cool it looks and what a statement it makes in the room?

No.

He flops on it with his shoes on, turns on the TV, and proceeds to fart on the new couch.

Yes, you heard me right.

He on my new suede sofa!

Seriously, who does that?

Who spends good money on something and then farts on it?

Who does that?

“PHILLIP! Why did you just do that?”

“It must have slipped out,” he tells me with a little giggle.

“Phillip Mackenzie, that is our brand-new couch!”

He dismisses my horror. “Chill, it’s not going to hurt it.”

“It’s a couch!” I say again.

“And it was one stupid fart.”

“Well, it’s the couch’s first day here. If it has feelings, it must be terribly offended.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

I change course because I can see I need to speak in terms he can understand. “Phillip, are you telling me, if a skunk sprayed your car, it wouldn’t hurt it?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt it, no; it would just smell horrible.”

“Exactly my point! The fabrics in your car are permeable. They hold in scents. Just like our new couch. One of the reasons you liked it is it reminded you of a sports car, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“So, do you want people to come sit on our gorgeous, new couch in our brand-new house and have it smell like skunks live here?”

“Jadyn, it didn’t even smell; it was just air.”

“No farting on the furniture, Phillip.”

He stares at me.

So, I say, “I’m serious. I’m adding it to our vows.”

He rolls his eyes at me but says, “Fine. I won’t fart on the couch.”

“Good.”

As I turn around to start putting wineglasses in the bar, I hear him mumble, “In front of you.”

Okay, so I get farts.

I understand that our bodies were designed to do this as a way to let air escape when it needs to.

And I lived with two boys. I get that boys fart. I get that boys think farts are always hilariously funny.

But I thought maybe this was something they just did in a group. Like, when you fart alone, it’s not as funny. I seriously cannot think of a time that Phillip has ever farted in front of me when we’ve been alone.

It’s stressful enough, trying to get everything unpacked.

And, to make matters worse, my pregnant best friend, Lori, decided—today of all days—that the baby in her belly can hear us, and she was encouraging—snarling/bitching at—us to watch our language all day.

I survived living with two boys without developing a farting habit, but when you hang out with people a lot, you tend to talk in a similar fashion. I think it’s kind of like picking up an accent when you move down South.

You can’t really help it.

So, I happen to have a pretty colorful repertoire of curse words in my vocabulary. The F-word being the tip of the iceberg really. I have to be very mindful of what I say at work, but around the boys, I let loose and talk like them. Lori has been my best friend since college. She knows that I cuss. And, even though she swears like a sailor, she’s officially joined the F-Bomb Patrol.

She told me I couldn’t say the F-word in front of the baby.

And I was about ready to buy her a fucking badge.

Oh shit. See? It just comes out.

And, to make it worse, I said Damn.

Oh my. See my point?

So, I realize that, if my swearing comes out naturally, maybe Phillip’s fart did in fact accidentally slip out. But I can’t let him get away with it.

I dive-bomb on top of him and say, “Mac Daddy is a bad boy.”

He gets a grin on his face, that naughty gleam in his eye, and says, “But, Princess, on the brand-new couch?”

I reconsider that. “Uh, maybe not.”

He rolls us off the couch, causing me to let out a scream and then laugh. Phillip smothers my laughter with his lips, and then, well, I let him be a little naughtier.

Thank goodness the F-Bomb Patrol is gone because I’m pretty sure we would have gotten arrested for this.