Stewed Potatoes + Enchiladas = Addiction

There are certain scents that have floated into the love-crevices of my brain and made themselves at home.  Things like my husband's armpit, for a perfectly normal example.  Or the place where his neck meets his jaw.  Or where his shoulder meets his neck.  All of those scents are slightly different and hugely wonderful. 

Then there's my mom.  She exudes a cloud of sweetness that is so imperceptibly right -- powdery and subtle -- and which will always smell like comfort. 

And my daughters...oh.  The silken patches beneath their ears.  The quarter-sized circle where Lauren's hairline part meets her forehead.  Mia's heavy hair, swinging as she runs past.

Now there's Landon.  All three months and 11 days of his life have seen me inhaling so vigorously that I fear I may suck a tiny bit of his essence into my soul with each breath.  There will be nothing left of the poor boy by the time he's walking. 

You know, now it occurs to me --

babies are born smelling SO amazing, right?  There's just something about a baby, and I don't mean the scent of the lotion or shampoo or powder they're usually accompanied by.  It's just a baby smell, you know?  But they lose it.  It vanishes by the time they're toddlers. Maybe preschoolers if you're lucky.

And now I know why.  Mothers inhale it.  There's a finite amount of eau de enfant surrounding each new baby. 

(Woe to you if you try to steal my supply...)

Only, with Landon, there are some caveats.  Not to me; I think he smells perfect.  Amazingly, intoxicatingly perfect. 

Mia and Lauren, though?  They sort of disagree. 

Oh, they think he's the sweetest, cutest, darling-est boy in the world, it's true.  But for some reason -- perhaps because we only bathe him when we remember (which is sort of a rare occurrence) -- Mia has designated his particular scent to be that of stewed potatoes.

STEWED POTATOES.

I know.  I mean, what even are stewed potatoes, and how would my daughter know what they smell like?  I'm certain I've never 'stewed' potatoes.  Boiled, fried, baked, roasted...sure.  Still, none of those savory potatoes suggest 'Landon' to me.

Even worse, is the smell of his hands.  Again, not to me.  The fact is, though, that he's only just now starting to un-clench his little fists.  They've gotten...soggy.  Damp.  Three months of damp.  Justin tells me they smell like sour, sweaty toes.

Lauren tells me they smell like enchiladas.

ENCHILADAS.

I'm adrift in a sea of people who don't understand the nuanced perfection of the scent of my baby. 

Still.

I guess he should have regular baths.  No amount of soap can cover eau de enfant completely, after all.  I'll still be able to get my fix.