So, how did your evening go? Mine was quite memorable—unless you count the late-night visit from the gas company in Hazmat suits because I was utterly convinced there was a gas leak in my house, putting my family’s lives at risk while we slept.
Let me take you through the evening…
5 p.m.
We decided to treat our family to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. After a day full of chaos with the kids, I thought tacos and margaritas would be the perfect remedy to save my sanity.
7–9 p.m.
After a lengthy two-hour bedtime routine (which is totally normal, right?), I was hit by the most nauseating odor I had ever encountered. It was reminiscent of rotten eggs, but far worse.
I know what you’re thinking: “Boys’ rooms are notorious for their unpleasant smells.” However, my son Aaron’s room usually smelled like sugary delights, thanks to a vanilla-scented air freshener. I was convinced something had either died in there or that a forgotten sippy cup of spoiled milk was the culprit, but nothing seemed amiss.
In desperation, I called my husband for backup. We both sniffed around the room, and while we couldn’t pinpoint the source, the stench seemed to be emanating from the air vent above his bed.
OMG, I thought, we have a gas leak!
9:30 p.m.
At this point, I was in full-on panic mode (let’s be real, it was just me panicking; my husband remains cool as a cucumber). I started to experience a headache and felt lightheaded, convinced we would succumb to a gas-induced coma if we stayed in the house any longer. So, we all headed outside, including the baby who was still asleep.
I attempted to call the gas company, but of course, they were closed. They suggested I call back during regular hours or contact 911 if it was an emergency. Clearly, the potential threat to our lives constituted an emergency.
Operator: “911, what’s your emergency?”
Me: “Um, I’m not sure if it’s an emergency. Is there a hotline for non-emergency emergencies?”
Operator: “What’s your location?”
Me: “I think I smell something weird, maybe a gas leak, but I’m not entirely certain. I’ve never had to… (I was cut off).
New Operator: “This is the fire department. What’s your emergency?”
Panic surged through me; I pictured them arriving with sirens blaring, waking the entire neighborhood.
Me: “It’s not exactly an emergency, but I believe I smell gas. I don’t want to waste your time or send the fire department out, I just…”
Fire Department Operator: “Hold.”
Amid the unfolding chaos, I heard my son 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 go pee, just do it in the grass.”
Aaron: “It’s not that.”
He lifted his blanket, unleashing a smell so foul it could burn your nose hairs.
OMG, the beans! He had devoured way too many at dinner.
Me: “We don’t have a gas leak. We have a child with the most impressive flatulence known to mankind.”
Fire Department Operator: “Are you still there?”
Me: “Oh, yes. Everything is fine now. The smell has dissipated. Thank you, but we no longer need assistance. Goodbye.”
Fire Department Operator: “Are you certain?”
Me: “Absolutely. False alarm. Thanks for your time, and sorry for the inconvenience.”
But this wasn’t the end of the story. Apparently, when you call 911 about a gas leak, you can’t just hang up and declare it a false alarm. It’s akin to shouting “bomb” on an airplane—there’s a protocol. This meant the gas company arrived at our door, fully equipped in Hazmat suits.
Yes, this actually happened. They conducted tests throughout our house because my son had the most potent gas imaginable.
When the team entered, I assured them I no longer detected any smell and that everything was fine.
“Have a good night,” I attempted to close the door.
“Nice try,” one of them responded. “Ma’am, we shut down entire malls during peak shopping periods and churches on holidays for reports of strange odors. If necessary, we will cut off the gas to the entire neighborhood. Do you understand the seriousness of such a claim?”
Me: “Yes, sir” (stepping aside to let them in).
My thoughts were solely on how my neighbors would perceive this embarrassment. I shot my husband “the look”—the kind that says, “Under no circumstances are you to reveal the truth about the smell; we’re taking that secret to the grave.”
I also instructed Aaron to stay hidden in his room and not to come out.
The gas team combed through our home, checking everything from the attic to the backyard. Just another typical Monday night.
In the midst of this, I found my 5-year-old cowering under the covers.
Aaron: “Are they going to find out it was me and send me to jail?”
Me: (holding back laughter) “Not this time, buddy, but if it happens again, who knows?”
After a tedious two-hour investigation, they concluded there was no gas leak (as we already knew) but couldn’t identify the source of the odor. Thank goodness they remained oblivious to the truth.
In retrospect, perhaps allowing our son to indulge in four giant bowls of charro beans and then calling emergency services was not the wisest choice. But hey, sometimes parents enjoy a few too many margaritas and make questionable decisions. We’re only human.
Moving forward, we will certainly be checking our child’s backside before dialing 911.
Summary
This humorous recounting of a chaotic evening illustrates the perils of parenting and the sometimes ridiculous situations that arise. From a dinner of beans to a near-911 call, this story serves as a reminder of the unpredictability of family life.