Speaking of Stinky...

Yesterday afternoon Jesse woke up from a nap with a very pungent poopy diaper. I laid him down to change him, and much to my surprise (and puzzlement) there was no dootie. What an unexpected and mysterious miracle. So I sent heavenward a silent prayer of gratitude, and picked up my overgrown boy so we cuddle together on the couch. (He needs help waking all the way up or he morphs into a vicious wear-wolf.) As the minutes passed, I occasionally detected a hint of some nasty funk in the air. I checked and rechecked, but nope. No poop. Very strange. So I verbally accused Jesse of being a sicko stinky fart butt, and he leaned into me, convulsing with laughter. At that moment I was bombarded with a barrage of odor bullets, aimed right at my poor, defenseless nose. And then I realized it. The source of the putrid death was Jesse's nasty breath! Heaven help me, I was repulsed by my own child. Alright now. I brush my kid's teeth. And I don't force him to provide refuge for week-old sun-baked roadkill in his mouth while he sleeps. But I'm telling you, a tic tac was just not going to do the job here. I guess that's it. Chalk another one up to stinky boys.