Several days ago, a UFO (unidentifiable foul odor) was detected in our van. It happens. We shrugged, sprayed some Oust and went on with our lives. Yesterday when the smell became something between stinky cheese and elmer's glue, I went out and emptied the van of all the wrappers, discarded junk mail, and assorted childhood debris. Since I found no sentient life forms, I shrugged, sprayed some more Oust and kept going.
By the time we left for swimming lessons today, the fumes had reached the eye watering, gag inducing stage somewhere beyond spit up and leaky tomatoes, and I knew it was time to get serious.
I took the seats out of the back and discovered that someone (who shall remain nameless, but her name begins with the same letter as minivan, and mess, and "Wow! Mommy is really Mad!") had spilled an entire cup of orange juice on the floor and neglected to tell me.
I have never in their lives punished either of my children for spills. Spills happen. I've never even punished them for spills caused by carelessness, although I have held them responsible for the cleanup.
But silence? This silence is not golden. This silence is sticky and spawning in the carpet in my car. And someone has got to clean it.
Just not me.
