I like to call it “Baby Stank.”
I realize that, technically, Baby Stank is not a flavor, but an aroma. A massive one. One they should harness and use in the next biological warfare weapon. Oh, yeah, you could wipe out an entire city with that funk, I do believe! <shiver>
On the row below Hubby and me in the very crowded gym, a family was seated, holding an oh-so-cute little boy, probably less than a year old. He was really cute, but wait…
What’s that smell??!
Oh, you mean that green cloud hovering over our heads?
Um, yeah. That would be it.
It was unmistakable.
It was <Dun, Dun, Dun!> Baby Stank.
As we fanned our programs in the hopes of steering said cloud away, we burst out laughing and reminisced about the good old days. The days when your precious one has laid the mother lode in his pants and you have left the diaper bag in the car. Which, by the way, you had to park a mile away. But you would only be gone 45 minutes, right?
Trust me, honey, that is time enough for your child to lay a load the size of Mt. Rushmore in his pants. And time enough for it to start fermenting…and disseminating its bouquet to the immediate surroundings.
Every couple of minutes, they would shift said baby, from Mama, to Daddy, to Grandpaw and the scent would waft anew. Or then, they might start bouncing him in time to the lovely music the band was playing. Surely that poo smell was about to knock them out too? Right? Could they possibly be immune?? Somehow, they managed to pretend that nothing was happening. <shakes head in disbelief>
But we were all on to them.
At one point, the lady seated next to me gave me a look. Cocked head. Raised eyebrows. Wide eyes. Yes, she had smelled it too. And so had her daughter next to her, who had asked her mother, with a confused look, “What is happening? Is something happening??!”
There was simply no escape.
So, between fits of uncontrollable, stifled laughter, we
endured, er, enjoyed the concert and thanked God we no longer had children in diapers.