Disclaimer: This post is NOT for the queasy-stomached. If you are pregnant or sick or eating something right now, please stop reading.
I noticed it a couple days ago. I walked up the stairs and something tickled my nose. . . but not in a good way. I asked everyone else to come and check it out so I could make sure it wasn’t just me who was smelling it. Nope. There was definitely something. For two days, we looked around upstairs to try to find the source. A dirty diaper that got tucked away somewhere? Nope. A moldy cleaning rag? Nope. Then Patrick had a thought—what if there was a dead animal up in our attic? Oh, great. How much did I NOT want to climb up in our attic and look for some decomposing animal remains? I called my dad to see if he could help out with our dilemma, but he wouldn’t have a chance to come over for about three days. Crap. I didn’t think we could wait that long. . .
A couple hours ago, Patrick was in the girls’ bathroom on “teeth brushing duty” when he called down the stairs to me, “Mer, you gotta come up here!” Based on the tone of his voice, I was scared. I reluctantly went into the bathroom. Once I was inside, he closed the door to reveal something that had gone undetected behind it— sitting on top of an air vent that is inconveniently hidden behind the door when it is open (and since my girls NEVER shut the door when they’re in there, it is ALWAYS open) was the CLEAR source of that smell. A baseball-sized turd. Trust me, I am as grossed out as you are. I was even more disgusted when I thought back over the last couple days which have been unseasonably COLD, meaning the heat has been coming on quite a bit. . . baking the darn thing and blowing the smell all through the air. All that time I was searching the rooms upstairs for the smell, it NEVER occurred to me to look behind any of the doors. Oh, and by the way, we do NOT have any pets. . .
There are actually two bright sides to this whole thing:
- I no longer have to scavenge around in an attic/pet cemetery.
- This was the first time that Emery hasn’t done her business in her diaper—maybe we’re closer on this toilet training thing than I thought!
You can thank me for not taking a picture. . .