This is one of those stories where you think you’ve set your standard of bizarre child behavior low enough, only to be blindsided by an unexpected “Who DOES that??” sort of experience. In this case, it involves urine, because kids. And I choose to share it because there will a small minority of you that will not only get this, but will draw a, “The more you know” sort of enlightenment from it.
(And that small minority of you will likely be the parents of BOYS.)
It goes without saying that the two bathrooms in our house get a LOT of use, particularly the one on our main floor. They need a good cleaning at least every two days, even if it’s to remove damp towels from the floor. And if your family is anything like mine, damp towels end up on the bathroom floor every.single.day.
Keeping it clean is a battle.
I noticed recently, however, that despite my best efforts, the downstairs bathroom still smelled of, well, URINE. No matter how vigorously I scrubbed the toilet, the tiny bathroom still smelled, like, well… pee.
Now we’ve got one of those nifty plug-in air fresheners in there; and I will say that the little nightlight on it is a nice bonus for those late-night runs when you need to pee and need just enough light to avoid missing the toilet.
(which is more than I can say for other family members… apparently.)
And as the days went on, the faint trace of urine began to grow; our once-quaint main bathroom now possessed the odor of your average New York City subway system public bathroom.
So I scrubbed.
And bleached.
And scrubbed some more.
And while our bathroom looked clean, looks can be deceiving.
Despite it’s charming appearance, the smell would slowly envelop you once inside. You were soon bathing in the aroma of a hot, soupy fish tank.
(And for the record- because of my allergies, my sense of smell is sorely lacking most times. So if I was catching this, it was nearing epidemic proportions.)
For a compulsive cleaner like myself, this was distressing. Where?? What was the source??
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and smell tests call for #2. Poor #2, who is genetically gifted -or in this case, cursed- with a superior sense of smell. #2 is my go-to when a smell needs to be identified. If a carton of milk is questionable, I don’t trust my own meager sense of smell to evade disaster.
A typical scenario:
Me, entering a room: “What’s that smell? Is there a smell in here? Is that cat pee?”
#2: *discreetly runs from room*
Me: “#2…. I need you…!”
#2: “MOM, I am NOT smelling whatever that is! Ew!”
But #2 is a patient, wonderful kid, so she was willing to roll up her sleeves and play nasal detective with me. And with our noses to the floor like bloodhounds -because let’s face it, there’s little dignity in parenting, anyway- we began to examine every inch of floor, rug, & toilet, but no source identified.
#2 bailed. Nose to the floor, I sniffed. And sniffed some more. In desperation, I even grabbed the bottom hem of the shower curtain, & sniffed.
BINGO.
Urine… On.The.Shower.Curtain.
