TheMommyBlog

Thursday, October 16, 2003

I have this thing about salmon. I really don’t like it. The taste, the smell of it cooking, and especially the smell of the packaging after it’s been emptied just absolutely makes me gag. Thing is, it’s my husband’s favorite food. A preference with which he has now also infected the children. I don’t know why I find this so distressing, as I never have to eat it myself.

While pregnant and in possession of bionic senses, I would have to open all the windows, spray the offending air with whatever was handy and did not smell like salmon, and sometimes even leave the house until the odor dissapated. I would also get upset if I had forgotton to close our bedroom door to keep the smell from disturbing my sleep later on. In short, I’m a little neurotic about it.

So last night I came home to “fishy” children. Not a biggie, I don’t care what they eat during the day, I’d just prefer not to relive it when I get home. The problem was that I couldn’t tell where the smell was coming from. I scrubbed to counters, the table, and the floor under the kids’ chairs. Still stinky. Then Dylan crawled into my lap and I got a noseful of the fishiest-smelling hair in history. Aaaaaccckkkkkk! How did he get salmon in his hair? Doesn’t that get you disqualified?

“Up! Up! Out! Bath! Bubbles! Now!” I plonked everyone in the tub and went, shuddering, back to my favorite chair.

Which smelled like salmon.

I dropped to my knees, scoured the floor for rotting aquatic fleshy bits, recalling that Logan had left his dinner plate on the chair the other night (Why?? Who does that?), and almost gagging at the thought that it had been ripening since then. Nothing. Then I smelled the slip cover. Gag, gag, gag. Doused it with Fabreeze and moved on.

Cut to this morning, as I was showing off my new, comfy, Hannah Andersson drawstring skirt.

Logan: “Mommy? You know how much you don’t like salmon?”

Me: “...Yeesss....?”

Logan: “Well, that’s how much I don’t like looking at you in those pants.”

Me: “...???...”

Logan: “Because they have ties on them. And I hate ties.”

Me: “...Wow. Okay.” (Rolls eyes.)

Later, he came to me while I was drying my hair and said, “Mommy, I don’t like looking at Dylan in his shorts, either.” He cupped a hand next to his mouth and said in a stage whisper, “They have a rip.”

(Speaking of neurotic.)