Caught Short

No stranger to chaos and dirt, indeed the initial moment spent with my firstborn, hugging him tightly to me with tender care was rewarded with being drowned with meconium squelching from his backside in a never-ending gloop.  Holding him above my head and away from me, only seemed to encourage gravity to squeeze out yet more of the offensive excretion, and child, mother and sheets became one with this thick, black slime.  At that moment, it seemed inappropriate to offer him the breast and to be quite honest, my bosom had been lost in the sludge.  Mother and son had gone through a type of initiation ceremony rather than a bonding.  After said gift, he then departed, torn from my muddy chest and whisked to Special Care in shock.  Shock?  What, shock at having spectacularly soiled his mother?  Shock at having met his mother?  Or shock at having had the largest first "crap" ever?  Only he can answer that.  That will probably remain a mystery since these days I'm lucky to receive a cursory nod in passing and any attempt to engage conversation results in a growl of: "You are just SO wrong in SO many ways!"

Well, last week another noxious smell came upon us, and, lo, the smell rested over us.  From first sniff I presumed that the kit bags needed fumigating or perhaps the kit needed washing such was the musty, pungent odour.  On inspection, the kit bags were empty.  No surprises there.  Clearly, it would appear that my boys have adopted the view that after a while, like hair, kit self-cleans.  So I couldn't blame the clothing.  Mice? Small rodents and toads love this house.  Nope.  So when my man could eventually drag his sorry arse away from watching sport and come over, he was greeted with:    “What do you think that smell is? Can you go and sniff around upstairs please?"  Strangel,y he was reluctant.

"Hormones!" he announced with authority. "Boy hormones!"

"Hormones? Do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I queried curling my lip in disgust.  This was a new development.  Another stage in raising boys that hadn't been written in any book that I had heard about (I hadn't read any as they all seemed just so well-intentioned and boring). "For how long do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I asked.  The thought of living in a vermin smelling hormone induced fog for years was quite depressing me.

"Oh, for the love of God woman, do I have to spell it out? Masturbation!" he declared.  No thanks darling, not before at least a glass of wine I thought.

"Masturbation? Ewwwwww. Nooooo."

"Yep, 24/7 I'd say by the stench," he grinned.  I paled at the thought that I had produced sons who were playing with themselves so much that the house was now rancid with the smell.  "Oh, please go and sniff in their rooms and tell me that the twins have adopted a mouse and it's not just the reek from sticky sheets after nights lusting about Cheryl Cole."  He refused.

The following day the source of the odour was identified.  My cooking.  My youngest son had thrown his lasagna, aka ‘Jamie's School Dinners’, into his bedroom bin and it was now a festering goo.  For good measure, he had needed to pee in the night and so, rather than be bothered to walk fifty paces to the loo, he had released a stream of golden liquid all over Jamie's quick cook lasagna recipe.  Yet another son who has no qualms relieving himself