I think we’re going to have to stop smelling The Hurricane’s bum.
Oh c’mon, if you’re a parent, an aunt, an uncle, a friend of a person with a kid, or have ever babysat for five minutes, you’ve sniffed a baby’s ass. Don’t go acting all high and mighty, because nobody on this site is buying it.
We do it because we don’t feel like stripping a struggling child down to nothin’ only to find out if they soiled themselves. Believe me, there is a much better way, and it involves either lifting the child’s ass to your face, or acting like dogs and getting down on our hands and knees and taking a good ol’ whiff of the diaper.
It’s not pleasant, it’s not proper, but goddamn it’s effective.
But The Hurricane is just too smart for her own good, and proved it again last night as we played on the living room floor after supper.
I don’t know if it was the excitement of our belly raspberries and play fighting, or all our laughing and giggling, but I let a bit of a toot slip. Toot might even be too strong a word, because I would never, ever dream of ripping a huge fart releasing gas in front of my dear wife. I certainly wasn’t born in a barn.
Anyway, The Hurricane and her super-sonic hearing somehow detected my little poof and she quickly said, “Dada poo-poo”. The Boss and I laughed, but then as I stood up and turned my back to her, she smelled my ass.
Like literally ran up and shoved her nose in my butt crack.
The poor thing.
Laughing, I fell back to the floor, but she wasn’t done – she grabbed me by the hair and tried to pull me towards the bathroom, repeating the words “Dada potty”. She’s not a hair-puller, so she must have thought time was of the essence.
Although I haven’t bothered to check, I think my drawers are clean this time, but it’s nice to know I have a shit-detector at my disposal should I ever be unsure.