what's that smell, mommy?
it's never good when it's you
stinking out the kids
OK, so here's the problem with a small inflatable pool: things can hide under it. There is just enough give for say, a frog, to get itself lodged up under there. And for some reason, when the immense weight of a kiddie pool full of water doesn't do him in, your slippery bare foot will. And you will be concentrating so hard on heaving the million pounds of pool over to the side so that you can empty out yesterday's gross water, you won't even notice that suddenly there is frog schmear all over your legs, arms, feet, shorts, shirt, EVERYWHERE.
Then, simultaneously, as you think, "What's that smell?" you'll notice the wrinkled noses on two of your three children. (The third child – the one with the trach, who needs constant supervision – is face down in the grass 50 yards away.)
This is when you realize what the smell is. The smell is squished frog. And it is ALL OVER YOU.
(My husband interjects here that if the frog was smelly, probably I didn't kill it with my foot. Probably it was already dead via the weight of the pool, and I just managed to re-squish it. Details.)
So then what do you do?
As the little voice in my head starts to freak.the.fuck.out, I somehow manage to finish the job. I know that I will never go back out into the yard again, and possibly will have to set myself on fire to cleanse the smell, so I had better get the pool situated for the long term. I finish dumping the pool, drag it far far away from the skidmark remnants of sad Mr. Frog, throw the hose in it, point and say in my best Zuul voice, "You Will Swim In This Pool."
Ashen faced, the children refuse.
The oldest turns green and threatens to throw up, making the whole scene even more exciting.
I stomp into the house, find a disposable cup, take it outside and place it, like a mini-sarcophagus, on top of the frog. "Just stay away from the cup," Zuul says. "And enjoy your pool."
The children do not comply.
I grab the trach baby from the grass (thank you artificial airway for ensuring he didn't didn't suffocate while trying to dig a hole to china with his nose), and run into the house, a parade of kids behind me. Straight upstairs we go. I slam the bathroom door, giving Ike-a-saurus free reign on the bathroom floor while I throw myself into the tub. The other two bang on the door. "Was that a frog? Why did it smell like that? Was it on you? It was ON YOU!" I turn the water up so that their voices are muffled by the cascade.
Half a bottle of baby wash later, I am smelling better. The kids debate venturing slowly back outside. Ike-a-saurus takes a nap. My husband wakes up from his nap and asks brightly, "How is everybody?"
Zuul's eyes turn red and a hush falls over the house.
Guess who just volunteered himself to officiate a frog funeral?