It is a truth universally acknowledged that babies smell heavenly. They just have that new human smell. At 6 and 3, my children still smell divine … right out of the bathtub, a mixture of pinkly-scrubbed flesh and Baby Magic.
Last night, they wanted me to lay down between them in their bed. It’s an uncomfortable routine for me, laying there on my stomach, patting one while rubbing the other’s eyebrow (it puts her to sleep, what can I say?). Eventually, they tire; feet shuffling and pillow plumping cease, and they yawn once more before their mouth falls slack.
Perfumes and incense brings joy to the heart – Proverbs 27:9
For many minutes, I’m scared to leave. Moving tends to wake the little beasts, and besides, I can hover close to them, soaking up that clean aroma, mixed with the minty remnant of toothpaste on their breath and a hint of lavender laundry detergent on their fresh-from-the-dryer nightgowns. They look like angels.
Soft curls framing Mia’s face, a tendril ending just shy of her mouth, slightly ajar, and revealing her missing top teeth. Wendy’s straight hair falls like a curtain around her heart-shaped cheeks and chin. After gazing awhile at their innocent faces, sliding myself toward the foot of the bed, I stop. I shouldn’t have stopped, but I heard something rumbling that sounded like a battery-powered toy under the covers.
It wasn’t a toy. It was Wendy’s stomach. And then, with my face inches from her midsection, she emits the most powerful fart I’ve ever witnessed. And within milliseconds, the olfactory sensation of what I believe tear gas to be, fills my nostrils and leaves me gasping for air. My face turns a sickly green and my eyes begin to water.
Moment over. Mood irrevocably crushed. How quickly that sweet smell of post-bath-beauty is squelched beneath the oppressive musky odor of methane! How deceptive are the sweet looks that hide the horrendous bowels!
Tell me about your passing-gas horror story. What type of cologne/perfume do you wear?