So, how was your evening? Mine was quite eventful—if you overlook the gas company showing up at my door in Hazmat suits at the unholy hour of 11 p.m., all because I was convinced my family would perish in their sleep from a gas leak.
Here’s how the night unfolded:
5 p.m.: We decided to have dinner at a Mexican restaurant after my children tested my patience all day. Tacos and margaritas were my only saving grace.
7–9 p.m.: After spending what felt like an eternity putting my son, Max, to bed, I was hit with the foulest odor I’ve ever encountered. Picture rotten eggs mixed with something truly horrific.
I know what you’re thinking: all boys’ rooms smell like they’ve been hosting a dead animal convention. But not Max’s room—usually, it’s as sweet as cupcakes thanks to a vanilla-scented air freshener. Something was definitely off. I called for backup, a.k.a. my husband, to help sniff out the source of the odor. We both agreed it seemed to be coming from the air vent above Max’s bed.
Panic set in.
9:30 p.m.: While my husband remained his usual calm self, I was convinced we were on the brink of a gas-induced coma. I ushered everyone outside, including the baby who was blissfully asleep.
I attempted to contact the gas company, but naturally, they were closed. They suggested I either call back during “normal business hours” or dial 911 for emergencies. Well, I figured our potential demise certainly qualified as an emergency.
Operator: “911, what’s your emergency?”
Me: “Um, I’m not sure if this is an emergency? Is there a hotline for non-emergency emergencies?”
Operator: “What’s your location?”
Me: “I’m not certain I need assistance… I just smell something odd, like a gas leak or something, but I’m not—” (Interrupted)
New Operator: “Houston Fire Department, what’s your emergency?”
Me: (Oh boy, they’ll send a fire truck, sirens blaring, waking the entire neighborhood!) “It’s not exactly an emergency, but I think I might smell gas. I don’t want to waste your time—”
Fire Department Operator: “Please hold.”
In the chaos, I heard Max whispering and pointing to his underwear.
Me: “Mommy is trying to figure out if we’re going to die—what is it? If you need to pee, just go in the grass.”
Max: “No, it’s not that.”
Then he lifted his blanket, and a smell wafted out that could only be described as horrific.
Oh no, the beans! He devoured an excessive amount of beans at dinner.
Me: “We don’t have a gas leak; we have a child with the world’s worst flatulence.”
Fire Department Operator: “Are you still there?”
Me: “Oh yes. Everything’s fine now. We no longer need assistance. Goodbye.”
But it wasn’t the end of the story. Apparently, when you call 911 about a gas leak, you can’t just hang up and say “false alarm.” It’s akin to yelling “bomb” on an airplane—there’s protocol involved.
Next thing I know, the gas company shows up at our door clad in Hazmat gear. Yes, this really happened. After a thorough inspection, I insisted that I no longer smelled anything, and they could leave.
“Have a nice night,” I said, trying to shut the door.
“Nice try,” one replied. “Ma’am, we shut down malls for strange odors. We can cut off gas to the neighborhood if needed. Do you understand the seriousness of this complaint?”
Me: “Yes, sir.” (I stepped back to let them in, thinking of my poor neighbors.)
As they entered, I shot my husband “the look”—the silent communication that said, “Under no circumstances are you to reveal the true cause of the smell.” I also instructed Max to stay hidden in his room.
The gas team went to work, testing everything from the attic to the backyard. Just another typical Monday night.
In the midst of the chaos, I found Max tucked under the covers, looking worried.
Max: “Are they going to know it was me and take me to jail?”
Me: (stifling laughter) “Not this time, but next time, they might have to.”
After two long hours, the gas team concluded there wasn’t a gas leak—something we already knew. They left, puzzled by the lingering odor, and thankfully unaware of the truth.
In retrospect, maybe allowing Max to eat four giant bowls of beans at dinner was not the best choice. But hey, sometimes parents enjoy one too many margaritas and make questionable decisions. We’re human after all.
From now on, we’ll definitely be checking our child’s backside before dialing 911.
For more parenting tips, you might find this article on home insemination kits interesting. And if you’re looking to pamper yourself, check out this lavender shampoo and body wash refill, a great resource for self-care. For those curious about pregnancy and at-home insemination, Kindbody offers excellent insights.
In summary, this wild evening reminded me that parenting can lead to some rather unexpected—and hilarious—situations. Sometimes all it takes is a little too much dinner and a frantic call to 911 to turn a regular night into an unforgettable adventure.