I walk into the house, and my nostrils are immediately assaulted with the pungent combination of cheese, death, wet dog, and month-old expired milk. If this were a movie, my hair would be blown backwards with the stench coming at me like a wave on the wind. What is that?!? The most horrible thing any mom of boys has to eventually embrace is that boys are made of snakes, snails, puppy dog tails, and a WHOLE LOTTA FUNK.
Boys Are Made Of Snakes, Snails, Puppy Dog Tails, And Funk
I look around the front room, and nothing looks unusual. There is no trash can overflowing in the corner. The dog hasn’t done her business in the middle of the floor. There are no wet, moldy towels hidden behind the couch. The only thing in the room is my five-year-old son watching television. He has thrown his shoes on floor in front of him, and he is sitting on the couch with his sock-clad feet stretched across my cushions.
I pause. There is no way that Sasquatch death smell is coming from my sweet, little, cute-as-a-button five year old. I mean, he’s five. He’s barely big enough to reach the sink by himself. He still has a little baby fat, and talks with a lisp.
I take a tentative step into the room, trying not to physically gag as I do so. Oh God, help me. The smell is making my stomach do flip flops in revolt.
“Do you smell that?” I ask my son, hoping he has hidden old meatloaf under the couch or his uneaten milky cereal behind a book on the bookshelf.
“Huh? I don’t smell anything.” He continues watching his television show, oblivious to the sewer line that must have burst in the house.
I walk toward him. The smell gets worse. I can almost see it now, the toxic green fumes rising out of his little, size 11 kid’s shoes. I look at his sock-covered feet, deceptively white and relatively clean. I have found the source of the sour smell.
NO WAY. There is no way this abusive smell is coming from him. I pick up one of his cute little Star Wars shoes, and tentatively take a whiff. Oh.My.God.
I cough, and immediately hold the shoe at arm’s length. I take a recovery breath. When I’ve regained a bit of oxygen to my brain, and have the wherewithal to do so, I pick up both shoes, and throw them toward the door. They are going to have to spend some quality outside time.
I still smell it. I quickly pull one of his socks off his foot. I can tell, before I even bring it towards my nose, his socks have been infected with the same toxic malodorous funk. I pull off his other sock, and throw them both in the kitchen, towards the washing machine.
Oh, for the love! The smell is lingering, almost visible like heat waves, coming off his bare feet.
“To the bathtub!” I demand. He looks at me like I’m crazy, oblivious to the fact his foot funk almost knocked me on my butt. He has just been content watching his little-boy television program.
“To the bathtub,” I repeat, picking him up off the couch. He is not happy with me, but I do not care at this point.
We spend 10 minutes washing him, paying special attention to his feet. He gets out, dries off, and puts on his Jammie’s. The crisis seems to be averted for the moment.
I walk back into the bathroom to clean up. Oh God! My bathroom rug now smells like feet. I take the rug to the kitchen, toward the washer and dryer. Oh God! His little, tiny socks have stunk up the whole kitchen.
What has happened to my “little boy?” Please tell me this doesn’t get worse! I can’t imagine worse. Do boys just smell this funky? Help me. I’m not going to survive the teenage stink years!