We’re both hanging ornaments when another one of her deep, rumbling farts rolls out and instantly fills the whole room with that familiar ripe smell. I scrunch my nose, wave my hand, and go “babe, seriously again?” but I’m already laughing because this is just daily life with my ridiculously gassy girl. She giggles, shrugs, and keeps stringing lights like she didn’t just crop-dust the entire tree, totally unfazed, while I’m stuck smelling her warm, stinky gifts. Every ornament we place comes with a fresh blast, and we’re both cracking up, because even when it’s gross, it’s so us, intimate, silly, and perfectly ours.

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