Side-effects of being a mom

So pretty often The Politician says something so fraking hilarious, I think, "I'll have to write about this on my blog! He is just as funny as The Big Kid!"

Night before last, Mr. Sasha and I choked at the dinner table because we were trying to hard not to laugh in his face.

But here's the thing- I totally forgot what he said. Can't even remotely remember what the situation was. And I've done that probably 5 times in the last week. This kid should be on Letterman, and I'm serious, but because I am barely keeping it all together, I can't recap the moment for you.

Here's one funny thing I can remember, because it happens each time we have pasta with red sauce, which is once a week or so because The Politician is the Carbohydrate Kid. Anytime, and I mean anytime, we have pasta with red sauce, The Politician strips off his shirt before coming to the table. Without prompting. Long ago, I got sick of doing laundry and all the steps it takes to remove stains, so I started taking his shirt off when we were having anything stain-ish, in an effort to save myself some time. I am now wondering if this is going to be a bad habit to break and if he is going to striping off his shirt when he goes to his girlfriend's house for dinner the first time in 2019.

So maybe the other stories will come back to me, but there are no promises. Because I will probably forget that I forgot.

My sense of smell must be hereditary

I must tell you that I have a crazy sense of smell.

I can't wear perfume or strongly scented lotion because smelling the same smell for any length of time makes me sick at my stomach.

I am also very sensitive to food smells- for instance I have forbidden Mr. Sasha from ever again cooking in my kitchen anything that swims. He cooked some salmon last year that I could smell for 2 weeks every time I walked in the house. I also can't throw away any food wrappings in my office trashcan at work because again, smelling popcorn for 4 hours will make me gag, so I have to cart all my food-related trash to the breakroom trashcan.

Anyway, the night we got back from Boston it was really late and the kids were asleep. The next morning The Politician came into our bedroom and crawled in bed between us. He sleepily said "Momma, you smell like Boston."

WTH? What does Boston smell like?

And just the other day, I got in bed with him for a bit to snuggle before he went to sleep, and he said "Momma, you smell like Mimi."

So I smell 58? Must have been my skincare routine. Time for some new moisturizer.