I sit with Baby Jack in my arms and stare into his peaceful face. He draws me in. I rock him gently back and forth as I browse through some blogs. Without thought, because of my rocking motion, I fart - mostly because I'm gassy.
I continue gazing with adoration at my boy when Jack Henry begins choking. A quick examination reveals nothing in his mouth. And then I'm slapped with the realization that the only thing he's choking on is the air biscuit I'd floated. He gags four times, maybe five, before settling back down into the beatific meditation that I had momentarily interrupted with a kind of olfactory "What the hell?"
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