That Smell

The temperature has hovered near freezing in San Francisco for the past few days. The skies are dark, wet, and -- I don't know -- heavy somehow. Perfectly appropriate, given that it's the middle of winter, but bleak just the same.

I think I would like to lay in bed and read until spring. But I bet that would actually be really boring. Unless Django was sure to interrupt me every now and again with a particularly radiant little nugget of chatter, like he did the other morning.

This distinctly enjoyable wake-up call started much the same as they all do when they happen before 5a: "Mama...(many minutes pass)...MAAAma...(more minutes)... MAAAMAAA...(now just down to one minute)...Mama?" By the time I finally arrived in his bed, Django had a whole list of complaints. "Mama, my sippy cup is empty." Yes, because you drank it. I'll get you more to drink at a more decent hour. "Mama, I can't find my stuffed friend in the covers." Here she is. "Mama, the night-light clock isn't glowing green." That's because it's not time to wake up yet. "Mama, I don't like that smell."

Hmmmm...hadn't heard that one before. So I gamefully sniffed the air. It seemed fine to me. What smell? "That smell when I stick my finger in my booty and then I smell it."

Oh, right, that smell.

Well, why did you stick your finger in your booty and smell it? "I don't know!" The hand sanitizer is right by your Elmo potty, you know. "Will that take away the smell?" Kind of. But if you don't like that smell you just shouldn't stick your finger up your booty and smell it. "Ok." Think you can sleep a little more? "Yeah." Me, too.

Winter Blues be damned.