I accidentally farted before bed. A hot fermented intestinal atomic bomb. I was sitting on the bedroom carpet, doing a hamstring stretch. And it slipped out. Kate was already under the covers. She said oh my god, did you—jesus Ry you’re disgusting. She said-stammered: why would you do that when we’re going to bed? What’s wrong with you? I said it was an accident. I said it’s not like I’m sitting here stretching and I instruct my bowel region to dispatch silent spray of chemical warfare. She said ugh, then: your sexual attractiveness just bombs when you do stuff like that. I stretched my other leg. Then got into bed. I felt more coming, like a balloon inflating. I tried my best to keep calm and carry on.

We did introductions yesterday in my English comp class at Georgia College—standard first-day-of-class protocol. One guy said he’s from a family of 14 kids. What? 14? I asked. Yeah, he said. My mom started when she was 17. Every two years, he said. And then made a movement with his hand, like a stone skipping 14 times along the surface of the water.

At 4pm, Kate and I ate dinner together. I had a 5pm graduate school class, otherwise we’d eat at a more prototypical American dinner time. Spinach and arugula topped with avocado slices, smoked sausage, and roasted carrots, onions and sweet potato. The baby is in her high chair. She drops her ball. I pick it up. Drops it again. Kate picks it up. I give Ellie my watch. She studies, tastes, then drops that too. We go on like this. How does a mother do this for 14 children?

I say mother because honestly they do most of the heavy lifting—at least if they’re breast-feeding. The sacred substance gets distributed before bed, before naps, during moments of anguish, fatigue, teething. And because of this lactic elixir, breast feeding mothers have an advantage over the men in the relationship.

One thing I will say is that stay-at-home parenting—regardless of who’s at home—is as easy as keeping a white couch clean from dog’s paws after his romp in a muddy yard. It’s brutal incredible, wow. Like god bless you if you’re a stay-at-home parent. And jesus we should all call our own stay-at-home parents and say holy hot heaven thank you. The job requires at least one hand present—so yeah texting, web navigating is still a possibility. But not really. Not in a satisfying immersive way, because attention is still chiefly directed towards the mini-human whose survival you’re trying to preserve. Under appreciated occupation, really. If I were president, the stay-at-home parents would get a medal of honor and a tax exemption. Actually don’t quote me on that. The sentiment applies though.

Also. The Aldi chicken sausage tricked me. The Nutritional Facts for the Italian Herb flavored sausage reads: Sugar…….0g. I nodded in approval and hastily grabbed five packs of sausages—including two other flavor varieties: apple and tomato-basil. Kate texts me last night and says the sausages have sugar. I texted back with an expletive. I didn’t read the ingredients of the other flavor packages. Got to read the ingredients, Kate says. I repeat my expletive. Then say that Aldi duped me. But you know how it is grocery shopping. It’s a barely conscious act. You’re either already onto the next item on the list, or your body is shopping but your mind is on the third floor, replaying something that happened six hours ago, or fidgeting through something that’s still two weeks away.

<<< Honestly, an uber helpful way to show your support for The Alt Dad Diary is to SHARE a post on your timeline. It’s a no-cost investment for you and it gifts your friends and family exposure to the day’s brain biopsy—which is hopefully entertaining and cathartic for them and most def beneficial for me. 🤔💥🤸‍♂️

P.S. Extended family members have recently said I need to curb my swearing around the baby. I've rolled my eyes. I've objected on the grounds that my swearing adds color to my speech, and isn't used disproportionately to other high-value vocabulary words. After reviewing last night's text message, however, I'm inclined to agree with the concerned extended family. Or at least agree that I'm overusing vulgarity, and need to up my word game.

So. Today's word of the day: apocyrpha, meaning most literally: writing of dubious authority (like heretic religious texts proclaiming to be authentic); but also more generally: any story that's believed to be true, but is in fact false.