Please--don't read this post! It will scar you for life and may be considered a form of birth control

My clothesline has sprouted a crop of tennis shoes. This is, I realize, an unusual fruit for a laundry line--which is typically festooned with--oddly enough--clothing, as well as tablecloths, towels, napkins, all the general fabric-constructed paraphernalia of our lives. But today is not merely a day to check off chores from a list. It is, I hope, the final battle in the current War on Stench.

I am a mom, which may or may not seem significant until one realizes that I am the mother of three boys. Those of you who have extensive knowledge of the life cycle of males are now nodding their heads in understanding. These boy creatures, they are not like you and me.

They wear socks for multiple days without removal--even during baths, occasionally. They call it efficient. I call it disturbing.

They eat inordinate amounts of food-related substances, but refuse to touch anything with a measurable nutrient count. (This may not be exclusive to boys, though. My daughter exhibits the same tendencies; whether from a general childhood trend, or from living awash in males has yet to be determined.)

They like weapons. Any weapons. At anytime. I found my son making a gun out of his program in Sacrament Meeting yesterday. It was not the most spiritual moment of the day.

They have no discernible observational skills with regard to messes. Again, moms are shaking their heads in shared dismay. No boy ever has walked into a room wherein were scattered the dismembered remains of his diurnal activities and said, "This place is a mess." It will never happen. And if it ever does it will be a sign of the impending Apocalypse.

They have extraordinary abilities and a complete disinterest in using them. I speak, obliquely, of the intended function of a bathroom. Enough said.

But their most significant difference from fully-developed human beings is their total lack of olfactory sense. Simply stated, they cannot smell the stench under their noses.

Now, I am not a perfect mom. I do not always show the proper concern for some aspects of motherhood that I ought. I rarely tuck my children into bed--mainly because there's nothing to tuck in the heat of summer (when sweltering is a finely-honed skill) and also because if I did they'd simply ask where their father was and bellow for him instead. I do not clean my children's rooms, other than the occasional floor-scrubbing. They made the mess; they can darn well clean the mess. Why should I have all the fun? I do not gently sing my children awake after their slumbers. Nothing less than an air horn works effectively and my brain hurts too much already in the morning to attempt something my husband endures better. Is it so amazing, then, that I had not entered my male offsprings' room for almost a week?

I wish now that I had not waited so long. The delay only gave the smell a serious head start to whole-house permeation. Earlier in the week it may have only been an offensive odor, or perhaps an unpleasant fragrance. I suspect that around Wednesday it developed into a robust reek. By Sunday, though, it was a full-bodied, soul-rending, no-way-to-evade-the-damage STENCH, and it was wilting my houseplants. On my odor-hunting expedtion I walked into a wall of nasal pain.

Unfortunately, the only way to discover the source of such revulsion is to invite further damage by sniffing out--literally--the culprits. This, my friends, is not a task for the weak of heart or stomach. It requires that one buy inordinate amounts of life insurance, and then, after donning rubber gloves and a hazmat suit, actually pick up and SMELLING EACH POTENTIAL OFFENDER IN THE ROOM!!!!!!!!! Think about the detritus usually found on the floor of a bedroom occupied by small males. THINK ABOUT IT!!!!!!! Now call your psychiatrist, because you will need therapy. Discarded clothing of uncertain vintage: sniff. Left-overs from meals long past (and that we don't have ants is a testimonial to the efficacy of our pest dude's monthly applications): sniff. Toys in such states of decay that they can only be termed germ warfare in embryo: sniff. Sock tucked inconspicuously under pillows: sniff. Shoes hanging on their ordained receptacle, (for once! It should have tipped me off that something was amiss. I can only surmise that the stench had deadened my thinking process.): sniff, sniff, sniff. Gag. Wheeze. Gasp. Retch. Heave.

Houston, we have a problem.

The culprit: four pairs of tennis shoes. All worn frequently without socks--after repeated demands to don such protective articles. All in various states of mind-numbing, heart-attack-inducing, elimination-of-the-ozone-layer-capable stenchiness. I am still trembling after our encounter.

Today they went into the wash, where they tumbled for thirty minutes--bathed in a solution of detergent, color-safe bleach, washing soda, borax, and anything else I could toss in without imminent risk of explosion. They emerged sopping, smudge- and dust-free, and are now being de-germinized by the ever-obliging summer sun.

It's supposed to hit 110 today. I sure hope it does, because if solarization doesn't work, our next battle will include nuclear options.