The other day, I was busy changing the little man after a particularly potent nappy, and chatting away to his daddy as I did so. Halfway through the conversation, I turned around briefly to emphasise a point and found him pressed up against the window, his face wedged awkwardly out of the open fan light through which he was taking in great lungfuls of fresh air.
I don't know how long he had been like that, or what the neighbours thought, but it was quite a sight. I asked him what exactly he was up to. Apparently, the fumes from his first born were just too much for my six foot two husband. In fact, he told me through watering eyes, he didn't know how I could do it. Funny thing was, the smell hadn't bothered me, not one bit. Never has in fact. And I am sure I am not alone.
I won't go so far as to say I find the odour pleasant - that just sounds a bit too weird, but it is certainly not unpleasant. Actually, I will confess that I like it. This is my son who I love dearly, and anything connected with him, even something as yucky as poo, is alright by me. I am not saying his daddy loves him any less because he has to stand three metres away when the nappy comes off. It just seems that Mother Nature, having given us ladies the ability to give birth and feed our babies, has also provided us with an inbuilt resistance to even the most stinkiest of situations. Which is lucky really considering the number of nappies that need changing every day.