The Stench of Boys.


He stinks.

His lovely new baby smell lasted for exactly four months.  And for the past month, he’s stank approximately 70% of the time.

He somehow marinates in his own sweat every time he sleeps, and he wakes up smelling like an entire load mildewed laundry.

And the smell doesn’t fade while he’s awake, either – he’s like a reverse air filter, permeating every inch of my house with his mildewed aroma.


I was complaining about his odor on Twitter and Facebook last night, so I figured I should do something about it – perhaps a bath.

By the time I got around to it, he was doubly smelly – his mildew effect was still in high order, and he added the garnish of a poopy diaper to the aromatic attack on my senses.

I ran him a bath, cleaned up his diaper, and put him in the tub.

I reached for the wash cloth, then heard a familiar, yet horrific, straining sound.

Looked down.  Wished I hadn’t.  An entire family of brown snakes of poo were swimming in my son’s bathtub.

I screamed.

Ali asked, “What’s wrong??!!”


Chris wasn’t home.  I had in my possession a naked baby, a poo-filled tub, and no one to help me.

Panic Mode.

I picked him up and set him on the edge of the tub.  Holding his pooey self with one arm, I dumped his little tub in the big bathtub with the other.

Immediate regret.

“Why didn’t I dump that in the toilet??!! Now I have to clean both bathtubs!”

Still didn’t know what to do with wet, slimy baby, so I set him down, muddy side up, on the bathmat.

(Poor bathmat.)

(Mental Note: Wash Bathmat.)

Scrubbed big tub.

Scrubbed little tub.

Wiped a butt.

Refilled the little tub.

Chris called.  I answered the phone as I’m putting Noah back in the tub.

Wanted to know what I want for dinner.

Yes, because that’s exactly what I want to think about after washing ten greenish-brown poo snakes down the drain.

A minute after putting him in the tub and while I’m still talking to Chris, brown bubbles began to float to the top.

He crapped his tub.


Hung up with Chris after screaming incoherently in his ear.

(If he’d had translators, I’m sure they would have told him I was blaming him for impregnating me with a crap-machine.)

This time, there were no snakes. 

It was much worse.

It was the watery kind.  Globules of brown oil spill spots were floating on top of the water.

Ali, still observing my state of hell, asked if she ever pooped in the tub.

“Only once, and it was at Gramammas.  Thank you for that, by the way.”

I picked Noah up again, set him on the side of the tub again, this time leaving a perfectly molded set of muddy butt prints to add to my cleanup efforts.

Too much water in the tub to drain it into the toilet, so I repeated: baby on bathmat, muddy side up, pour little tub into big tub, scrub big tub, scrub little tub, rinse and repeat.

Threatened baby that if he dares crap in the tub one more time, Ali will forever be my favorite child.

Gave said baby the world’s quickest bath – who cares if he stinks.