It was a gentle scene; the soft afternoon light cast a glow on errant dust motes. Children playfully chase cats chasing the dust. The Sam Champion band played softly from speakers, the bootleg mp3 streamed via a network server to an appropriately compatible media center (of course). Laughter and quiet talk fills the air. 

Then a pall… a miasmic cloud creeps around the room, a stench more foul than day-old lap dance puke after a weekend Vegas binger.  It hits the occupants suddenly, violently, without remorse, like a really smelly mugger.  The cats flee.  The dust motes quiver in terror.  Every mother immediately drops to the floor and puts nose to their respective child’s butt.  But I, with sinking gut, knew the perpetrator. Then, to confirm what my gut already knew, the dance begins… a flailing, squirming, twisting gyration, more disturbing than a Michael Jackson sidewalk instructional, as my son frantically tries to escape the noxiousness of his own bottom.  (Just like daddy.)

And I, standing stoic amid the eye-watering fumes, knowing that the other moms can’t possibly have built up the same tolerance that I now have to this excruciating olfactory pain, I still wait a full five minutes before changing his diaper… to make sure it’s ALL OUT!

Bad (playgroup) mommy.                – the weirdgirl

Thanks, CroutonBoy, for the inspirational search terms for this post!