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Smell? What smell?

Most days Ms. Rosie comes to our house to watch Cletus. I do nothing but say good morning and go on my way. We have Ms. Rosie - except on Thursdays. Thursdays are a free for all. Thursday mornings are hectic; due only to the fact that I am held personally responsible for packing the baby up and delivering him safely (and somewhat on time) to whoever happens to be watching him. Today Grandma got the goods.

I'm too unorganized and unmotivated to pack up diaper bags the night before and I'm too lazy to get up early to do it, so I'm left with chaotic franticness, attempting to get both Cletus and I ready and out the door at a time that will more than likely make me late for work anyway. This morning was no different. I cursed having to take a quicker shower, cursed not being able to find a pair of socks, and cursed having to open up a pack of diapers because there weren't enough on the changing table. I shoved a change of clothes and bottles and formula and bibs into the diaper bag. I stubbed my toe trying to find the light green pacifier because the blue one doesn't work and the last thing I need is him whining and crying all day because then my mom will suddenly become sick with Ebola on any day I ask her to watch him.

I checked the clock above the stove and saw that I had to leave in exactly fourteen seconds if I had any hope of getting to work on time so I needed to get that baby up now... maybe my mom wouldn't notice if I didn't actually change his diaper…

Just then the door opened and like an angel coming to save the day, in walks Ms. Rosie. She knew struggle to find child care for Thursdays and her Thursday happened to clear up so, like she told Big V yesterday, she could come and watch Cletus to make it easier for us. Obviously V forgot to tell me.

Well, that was all fine and good.... except for the fact that exactly two seconds before she walked in the house I passed the most awful smelling gas ever. Let me be honest: women fart but they never, ever, under any circumstances let anyone know that they do. Ever. I may not be able to control my bladder like I used to - no trampoline for me - but I can go three whole days holding back the most painful, life threatening gas ever because there might happen to be a witness in the area. A lady never, ever passes gas in front of a witness. This is a strict rule I have successfully lived by for decades. I thought I was in the clear. The only witness was a baby too young to talk or have memory of the incident, and he was located on the other end of the house in the crib. Sleeping.

I won't try to sugar coat this. The smell that emitted from my body was beyond foul. There was no denying anything. Ms. Rosie walked into something beyond horrific. She should get hazard pay. There was absolutely nothing I could do. Nothing. And so I just stood there with a look of embarrassment and horror stuck on my face, surrounded by the stench of spoiled eggs and rotten road kill, while Ms. Rosie maintained proper decorum, smiling her good morning before sprinting down the hall,  muttering “I think I'll go wake the baby...”

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