"Daddy, can you smell my butt?"

That line right there, children, spoken by Small Fry, was what made me stop not even halfway up the steps from the kitchen to the main level of the house.

Despite the crankiness in my ankle, my utter exhaustion, and desire to get back into bed, I was waiting to hear how this one would play out.

I could almost see Hubby's Migraine Salute.

"I am not going to smell your butt!  Why do you want me to smell your butt?"

Small Fry said something I didn't hear.

"Oh, your breath?  You want me to smell your breath."

I imagine Small nodded; the only thing missing was the sound of pixie bells, like when Tinker Bell talks to Peter Pan.

That rushing wind you just felt was Hubby's sigh of relief over Small merely wanting him to verify that she'd brushed her teeth.