Excuse YOU.

Oliver is becoming increasingly more difficult to burp. For one thing, he's stronger and bigger. It's harder to handle 16 pounds of wriggling verses a tiny 8 pounds. He's probabaly getting better at sucking down less air with his bottles after almost four months of practice, so when it's been 5-10 minutes of back-patting, we begin to wonder if our efforts our futile. But I'm not about to lay him down so that he spits up the six ounces drowning the crib sheet and draining into his little ears while he dreams. When he does give us a good belch, we encourage him with a "goooood job, buddy, great burp."

So he must be confused on a day like today when he lets out the biggest, loudest belch in church, ringing through the silent moments just following the sermon. There are no encouraging words for him there. Only his parents with red faces shaking their heads and quietly chuckling. And about four families in surrounding pews turning around to giggle and glow at the loud little boy.

Or how about the Titanic exhibit. He let out a burp that sounded like he had just downed a six pack of beer, just as we were viewing the timeline of events preceeding the tragic sinking. Now that was inappropriate.

Hopefully Ollie will be able to discriminate someday when it's appropriate and good to let it fly, and when it's less so. Once he's mastered that, then we'll work on farting ettiquette.