YOU never truly appreciate the ability to trust a fart until you've been on the receiving end of projectile baby poo.
For the past five weeks I've been down a rabbit hole of deep breathing birth techniques, quickly transitioning into baby wipes, nappies, sleeplessness and ecstasy.
The ecstasy that comes with not actually knowing what I've done, but whatever it is, it's drawn a few minutes of slumber from this little scream machine in my arms.
I didn't really know what to expect from this parenting caper, I still don't, but it's not bad.
Sure, my couch smelled a little fresher last week before somebody decided to projectile vomit on it.
And being spewed on in a bed by someone other than myself was definitely a foreign experience.
But overall I reckon there are more wins than losses. So far at least.
It's hard not to melt when you see this little bundle of life in your arms, sound asleep.
But inevitably those moments are punctuated by the reverberation of another exuberant fart.
The wide grin of relief that follows those are way too funny.
It's a surreal experience. Bodily functions have bec- ome a cause for celebration.
Where I would be chastised and frowned upon for letting fly with a monster burp post-dinner in front of friends, the opposite applies for my little buddy.
After a solid slurp on some breast the winding routine kicks into gear.
When the mass of air rises up her body and out into the world by way of a belch far louder than I thought her capable of producing it sparks wild celebrations, scenes of rapture, from her sleep-deprived parents who've spent 30 days treading water, and are slowly wading back towards their depth.
A burp! Woooohoooo! Two burps! Oh noooo! Milky spew!
How quickly scenes of delight turn to desperation.
Can we salvage that pillow? No. What about my shirt? No.
Do you think we really need to change the sheets? It's 1am? Yup, we do.
It was about two weeks into life with my daughter when a routine nappy change turned into Armageddon.
Two innocuous little fluffs put a wide grin on my face. She must be comfortable now I thought.
Seconds later I was plastered against the wardrobe as a stream of baby poo flew at me.
The code brown siren went out, and by that I mean I yelled out "help", and new mum ditched the breakfast omelette mid-cook, flicking the gas off and bounding up the stairs to provide urgent back-up.
One outfit, numerous wipes, towels, water, hazmat suits later, and her wide grin returned, and all was forgotten.
Lesson learnt: Don't trust baby farts.