Smell My Arm

On Friday morning, I took my kids to the lotion store in the mall where earlier in the week I had purchased five steeply discounted items but mysteriously only made it home with four. While I explained the situation to the cashier, my three older children got high on the noxious fumes of fruit-scented body spray. While the cashier searched the store's lost and found for my missing lotion, Cortlen tugged on my shirtsleeve. A quick glance confirmed that 100% of my son's exposed skin was covered with various shades of scented slime.

"Smell my arm," he commanded, sticking his greasy and extremely fragrant appendage in my face. He explained that while I had been talking to the cashier, he had been systematically testing every lotion on display. His left arm represented the entirety of the store's inventory.

While Cortlen was busy with his task, Kellen had taken up one of his own. I found him at the store's display sink, trying out a dozen foaming hand soaps one at a time.

"Hey!" he whined when I turned off the faucet. "I have seven more to go!"

"Let's go," I said.
"But my hands are all soapy!" he cried.

I made all of my children roll around on the small patch of grass growing outside the front doors of Macy's before getting into the car. No one asked the reason for my request because they already knew.


Like dogs and large woodland mammals, we are often overcome by necessity to leave our scent on the places we visit.

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Any pint-sized lotion lovers out there?