‘Hey mom, smell my face,’ my oldest suggested after running into the office looking as though he had been up to no good.

‘Smell my face’ sounds a lot like ‘smell my finger’ so I took a whiff….from a distance.

Bathroom spray.

‘You smell like bathroom spray!’ I chided. Displeased. ‘Henners sprayed me,’ he disclosed. As if it were the funniest most exciting nugget of information in the world. Sure enough, the two and a half year old walked into the office shortly thereafter, carrying the container of bathroom spray. And a trail of overpowering scent with him.

Naturally this all took place ten minutes before we had to leave for school. I ordered the oldest to change shirts – there was no time for a bath – and I changed his brother’s clothes. The smell remained. I had visions of the boy going to Kindergarten and his teacher sniffing the air, perplexed as to why the classroom smelled like a bathroom.

I considered explaining the situation to Senor Andy at drop-off, but no matter how you phrase it, ‘I inadvertently allowed my children to spray one another with bathroom spray’ doesn’t sound particularly good.

So I said nothing. After bidding my fragrant blondie adieu, I got back in the van. Which now smelled like an apologetic toilet.

Ah, Chevy Venture, how I love thee.