My Little Stinker

Michela

I give the gift of flatulence. It doesn't come from me directly, but I have the rare talent of inducing it in others, particularly my granddaughter, although my wife, Kellie, occasionally claims I give her indigestion too. This skill is quite useful because when that little turd (the granddaughter, not Kellie) gets a gas bubble stuck in her belly she wails like a cat in blender. Freeing that aromatic source of discomfort is not difficult, all it takes is pumping those chubby little legs up and down a few times (again, I'm referring to the baby, not Kellie), and after a few seconds, out pops some sweet relief.

My 21 year-old daughter-in-law thinks I'm some sort baby-calming savant. Kellie would add an adjective before savant and then probably drop the word savant altogether. I have no secrets or tricks. I'm just an experienced father of four who can run through the gamut of quieting techniques in record time: swaddling, shushing, swinging, pressure on the belly and plugging the little screamer with a pacifier. And if all that fails to quiet the beast, then I stuff a boob in her mouth, not mine of course, that would be pointless and gross. For that chore I hand her over to her mother, but otherwise I keep my granddaughter cradled in my arms whatever her mood may be.

I'm giddy over the birth of my first grandchild, Michela, and thrilled that my daughter-in-law decided to spend several weeks with us until my son, Russell, a Navy Aviation Electronics Technician, returns from a six month deployment and meets his daughter for the first time.

Welcome to the family, Michela.

Love,
Grandpa