When I came home the other day, it still smelled like shit. No surprise really, but my crinkled nose crept up before I could avoid the poopish smell any longer. Moosie seemed oblivious to the smell, but Bubba wore the same nose as me, his dirty freckles desperately trying to hide in the tiny creases of his displeasure.
"Mom, what's that smell?!?"
He looked more scared than curious, so I quickly checked the common places where stink invents itself. Trash cans? Clean. Toilets? Flushed. Recycling containers? No smells there. It couldn't possibly be the sink. Hubby did the dishes before going to work.
But there in the kitchen sink lay the culprits, cleverly hidden beneath a propped up cutting board (or, in other words, a dish that is too big to go into the dishwasher and therefore is somehow conveniently exempt from Hubby doing anything with it).
Three milk-soaked dish towels cowered disgracefully from their responsibility of cleanliness, and instead fragranced the air with nothing other than the "shit smell."
You see, the night before, five separate cups of milk were spilled by two different kiddos. One was spilled out of independence. One was spilled while expressing helpful kindliness. One was spilled out of clumsiness. Two were spilled while I was cleaning up the previous spills. In less than 5 minutes a half gallon of milk was wasted and half of the kitchen floor got a milk bath. But as usual, the mess was somewhat cleaned up and life went on. There was no yelling or screaming, no "you should know better" or "be more careful" comments flying around the room. Just three saturated towels tossed into the sink, and like the milky accidents, forgotten about.
Well, forgotten until nearly 24 hours later. Accidentally created by the boys, lazily ignored by the dad, and intently avoided by the mom, all adding up to one big stink...it's the cycle of life in these here parts.
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