The perfume story

It was not serene, not silent. It was the kind of quiet that is pregnant with possibility. The longer I listened, the louder the silence grew. Where was my little guy? As my shoe nudged the bottom of the bedroom door, my body reeled from the overpowering smell of perfume. My son was kneeling on the floor wearing a contented smile. I was wearing a shocked look. The floor register was wearing a damp pool of liquid.

My son said nothing as I scooped up the top from the Chanel bottle. The curious look on his face transformed to disappointment when I took the bottle from his hand. He had hoped to shove the bottle as far as possible down the heat register. I had railroaded such plans.

I picked up my little darling and settled him in another spot with some favourite toys. I collected cloths and cleaners and began to mop up the newly decorated floor register. It didn't take me long to realize I was cleaning only a small part of the mess because directly below the heat register in the floor below was the kitchen stove.

I flew down the stairwell and into the kitchen. The smell of Chanel permeated the air. My kitchen, the place of baking aromas, was now a perfume factory. Two stove burners swam in pools of Chanel. I looked in the pot of chicken noodle soup recently perked up with new Chanel flavouring and decided the brew was only fit for one place: the drain.

I wiped walls, stove top, burners, surrounding wall and mopped up all perfume liquid I could find. But that's one thing about perfume. It lingers. That lovely Chanel scent had become an intoxicating smell that forced windows and doors wide open and household members to escape outside for fresh air.

And so off to the park we went, my son and I, and exchanged perfume bottles for sand pails.