FEATURE: Pooh, is that you, Mum?

DURING our holiday to Melbourne recently, I had cause to question whether I was living up to my primary school nickname of Smelly Kellie. Cow manure happens when you live on a farm. More correctly, I questioned whether I smelt of baby BO. Baby BO is more than just your typical smelly sock stink. More than just that musty armpit perfume. And definitely more than stinky undies smell. But let’s not go there.

You see, my youngest childless brother was enjoying kisses and cuddles with his new niece – Baby Holly . That was, until she spewed on him. For the rest of the day, all I heard was his constant complaints of how he stunk. Did he? Because if he stunk then, I must be downright putrid. Look out, here comes Pepe Le Pew – just minus the charm. And here I was thinking it was quite pleasant. Kind of like Johnson’s Baby Powder, complete with the white mess.

I did a quick check: were there any flies hanging around? I debated whether I needed to buy one of those hats with the corkscrews hanging off the brim. The worry was I often wore my breastfeeding singlets three days in a row without a thought that I might reek of sour milk. Mind you, Baby Holly seems rather comforted by my armpit odour as she nosedives for another feed.

Since that holiday I’ve begun changing my clothes more regularly. The downside has been the amount of washing piling up. I also can no longer make it to the front of the cue in the deli section of the supermarket as everyone stands back and makes way for me. However, there have been positives. Strangely, my clothes no longer peel off my skin like sticky tape to paper. People in the streets have begun to smile at me again. I feel … shiny. Could it really be all from getting rid of my baby BO?

Have you ever had to deal with a smelly situation – your own or someone else’s?