I've got a confession to make. I don't know how to make myself burp. Whether it's because of some odd reflex or an absurd mental block, I've never been able to figure out how to belch on purpose, which has been an endless source of shame for me as a fully-grown man.
One of my less rational fears upon becoming a parent was that Grace was going to inherit this flaw from me. My fear only grew when she was first born and was struggling to get her gas up, in no small part because I hadn't yet figured out how to burp her either. She'd wriggle in discomfort. I'd furiously search for the magic spot to pat on her back. Eventually, she'd let out a tiny, halfhearted noise and we'd both be eager to just move on.
Thankfully, she's begun to assuage my ludicrous worries over the last few weeks. Grace has come into her own as a first class burper, the weak squeaks from before replaced by proud, trumpet-like belches that tell the world, "I am here and I am gas free". As one of Grace's primary burping partners, I'm definitely enjoying my front row season tickets to the burp show. Like any self-respecting male, every gross, boorish noise she makes brings me an infinite amount of joy. The louder the better as far as I'm concerned.
That said, there's still two burp-related issues that need to be addressed. The first is milk breath. Offensive noises are quite alright by me, but offensive smells are something else entirely, and it doesn't get much more offensive than warm, stale milk mixed with belly funk. The second issue is much more personal. I'm jealous of a three-month old baby because she's so good at doing something that I can't do at all.
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