Bathtime Confessions, Part Two

Last week I noticed a funky funk in the bathroom.  That is to say, noticed and dismissed it, until the smell got to the point of absolute unignorability, over the course of the day.

So it was that I ended up on my hands and knees, literally sniffing every bathroom surface I could reach. 

The bath and shower were okay, so it wasn't a drain thing.  I had half-assedly cleaned the toilet that morning, so that usual suspect was out.  I actually put my cheek on the cool tile floor and sniffed around the base of the toilet, just to be sure -- all clear.  The floor was fine and so were the vents.  The smell seemed isolated to the small pedestal sink, which was worrisome (see earlier drain comment).

And that's when I realized that the source of the smell was, in fact, a small baby washcloth wadded up in the sink, in a jolly rubber duckie print that belied the unholy stench emanating from its soggy self.

And THAT is when I realized that the reason this normally sweet-smelling scrap of fabric was jackfruiting up the whole room was because earlier that day I had used it to wash under my arms.  In lieu of a shower, which I hadn't had time for.

Not that day, nor the day before.  Not, in fact, for the previous five days, and the only reason that one happened was as the happy ending to a rare visit to the gym.

The joys that motherhood brings are, truly, too numerous to mention.  But not having time for -- or, more accurately, running a quick mental cost-benefit analysis and willfully deprioritizing -- bathing?

That stinks.

(Note: Model in photo is not me, not by a long shot.  For starters, I have much fatter hips and much hairier pits.  And I always had butterflies and sparrows shoot of of there, back in the day, not lame-o flowers.)