Smells of Life

We are all on the couch before heading up for bed, having some fun family time, giggling, talking, you know--one of those good moments.

I smell something and realize I think it is Jeff's feet. I go in for a closer smell and let out a big, "Eeeewwww, I don't think your feet have ever smelled that bad!"

Okay, I know there are several things wrong with this comment. First, I smelled the feet to confirm what I already knew, as the smell of stinky feet is unmistakable. Second, I say "have ever" which indicates I have smelled his smelly feet, probably up close, on more than one occasion. And third, they are feet--of course they stink.

Part of why this is such a big deal is that I am the queen of stinky feet in our house. Yes it is true. My sweaty feet are the main reason I cannot stand to bind my feet in the inner housings of those God-awful coffins called shoes. I would wear flip-flops all year if I could, and I do most of the year, but we do have snow in Indiana. I need to let my feet breathe and roam, explore their environment. Otherwise, like an angry skunk, they retaliate with a mystifying scent that is unmistakably mine.

So, back to last night, as I am certain that is too much information about me. Now the tables have turned and Jeff has stinky feet. The boys laugh and laugh and Phillip says, "let me smell." See? This is life with a house full of boys--let's all take turns smelling gross stuff and then laugh about it for 20 minutes!

"Eeewwwww, those smell like cock!" he says. Jeff and I are like, "WHAT? They smell like WHAT?" He says it again. We are rolling on the floor, tears running down my eyes.

Finally, after we pull ourselves together, we ask what he meant by cock. "You know, the caulk that Daddy squeezes out with that gun." The CAULK gun....oh. That's better!

And then, Phillip farts in Jeff's face.