A mom’s nose, knows. Most of the time this is true. If we can’t discern the “what” we can certainly ascertain one exists. We know someone got into the chocolate stash just minutes after the infraction. We smell something on the verge of burning. We know a biology project is taking place in the refrigerator way before anyone will notice/admit there is a problem. Moms get the best jobs. We become an in-house Sherlock Holmes, investigating the who-dunnit of household odors.
A recent case wafted from my thirteen-year-old’s room. “What is that smell?” Upon closer investigation, I confirm the odor is most definitely in his room as I sniff around corners, trying to pinpoint the exact location. It’s everywhere. I think to myself, “He is thirteen, maybe that’s it. He’s turning into a guy!” I had older brothers so I kind of remember not lingering too much around their rooms. It’s hard to imagine this happening to my once, baby-scented, cutie-pie. It’s a sad day.
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| Manly Shams |
I try to wash the big-guy smell away, pulling off a comforter, shams (yes, I did go overboard but they’re manly shams) and of course sheets. The windows stayed open as long as the furnace didn’t kick on. I invested in scented oils and still, the smell lingered. My son is oblivious, an unfathomable possibility to me. Maybe the myth is true: A skunk can’t smell it’s own scent. A molting teenager can’t be this bad. I’m beginning to smell a rat, a real one.
Our house practically resides in a forest, given all the wildlife sharing our neighborhood. At first it’s cool until Bambi eats all the plants in the front yard. Or the raccoons mastermind the garbage can lids and throw a late-night, food-fight party. Or perhaps, a country rat makes a home in your attic. They are cleaner and more innocent than the grimy fat rats in the city. At least this thought brings me a little comfort if one should live in my attic.
In Lafayette, attics are really just a crawl space filled with insulation. If I were a rat, that’s where I’d hang out to raise a family, a true rodent paradise. If the rat is quiet as a mouse, it can take awhile and almost never to be found out, unless one dies. The smell lingers at all hours for weeks. This is my suspicion for the odor engulfing my son’s room and it’s strongest in my son’s closet; I know it’s not the sneaks. It’s coming from the ceiling, an entrance to the attic. I’m on to something big. We’ve had this problem once before and I know I need outside help for this one, a repeat super hero: Rat Guy.
We hired a Rat Guy to “take care” of the problem, that one time. Nobody wants to chase a rat, dead or alive, nobody. I bring back a somebody, a big bucks Rat Guy, as we have a house full of scaredy-cats that won’t chase rats. And when Rat Guy arrives, the odor seems odorless. He finds nothing in the roof or around the perimeter of the house. It’s just like taking a car to a mechanic for a funny noise that completely disappears as soon as you pull into the gas station for repair. Just in case, Rat Guy sets traps and will come back in a week.Of course the smell comes back right after Ray Guy leaves. It’s spring and it’s getting warmer, that’s what I conclude. We pull most of my son’s clothes out to avoid permeating the fabric. He sleeps in the family room, as now even he can’t stand the smell. Of course this is cool and quite agreeable to him as he is close to the TV and far away from the parents.
I need to get to the bottom of this case. I’m baffled and return to my son’s closet to dig through shoes, books, wherever I can imagine a rat to crawl to his death. My determination outweighs my fear at this point. I know I smell a rat and I want him out of my house. Aha! The smell seems to be at the bottom of the closet, perhaps underneath the house.
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| Dungeon |
Darn it! I neglected to show Rat Guy access to the “dungeon”, an opening in my son’s closet floor. I invite him to go “down under” when he returns a week later to check his traps. Bingo, this time he smells something but still finds nothing. He tells me not to worry. “Whatever it is, it will eventually go away. It will just dry up.” Lovely. Even he is stumped so at least I feel validated. I did not make up the smell or the lack of evidence.
We move the clothes back in and my son complains that his jackets smell. Who am I to disagree if a teen thinks something is foul? Into the washer, the black fleece jackets go. At completion, I open up the washer and find it still smells. I decide to check the pockets, just maybe….I open one and see something gray-brown, mushy and soft. AHHHH!!!! I run to the back patio and fling that jacket to high heaven. My family will take this one; I don’t care if we have a bunch of scaredy-cats living here. Boys are supposed to love this stuff.
The three of them, husband and sons, form a circle around the jacket, ready for the unexpected. Armed with sticks, they poke at it and try to pull out the pocket contents. A few good tugs and it’s, “PEE-EEW! Ahhh DUDE! It’s not a rat, it’s a rotten sandwich!” AHH DUDE! I think you owe me $500 bucks for the Rat Guy! Case closed.
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Hello Francie,
Lovely to meet you today! You have a terrific writing style, it is so warm and entertaining at the same time. I loved your piece – years ago, my husband and I were residential staff at a boys' boarding school, and we had one or two similar discoveries!
Two links from today that might be useful – http://www.brittbravo.com and http://www.moo.com which is truly fabulous for business cards.
Cheers,
Alicia
http://www.savvy-life.com
aliciayoung10@hotmail.com
Alicia,
Pleasure to meet you too! Thanks for reading my blog! Hugs to you! I appreciate your positive feedback and resources. Maybe just enough to get the techie stuff done so I can get those cards!
Looking forward to reading your “Savvy Guide”.
Francie