So, how was your night? Mine was quite the adventure — if you ignore the crew from the gas company arriving at my doorstep in Hazmat suits at 11 p.m. because I was convinced we had a gas leak that would spell disaster for my family.
Here’s how the chaos unfolded…
5 p.m. We decided to treat ourselves to dinner at a Mexican restaurant, a necessary escape after a day of my kids testing my patience. Tacos and margaritas were my saving grace.
7–9 p.m. After two long hours of getting my child to sleep (just a typical night), I was hit with an odor so foul it would make anyone gag. Imagine rotten eggs mixed with something even worse.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: all boys’ rooms are like a landfill, but not my son’s. His space usually smells like cupcakes and candy, thanks to a vanilla-scented air freshener. But that night, I was convinced something had died in there, or maybe an old sippy cup had resurfaced. I searched high and low but found nothing.
I called in backup—my husband—and we both took turns sniffing the air, trying to locate the source of the stench, which seemed to be emanating from the vent above his bed. Panic set in.
9:30 p.m. I started to lose it. My husband remained calm, while I felt a headache coming on and started to worry we’d succumb to gas fumes in our own home. We headed outside, baby in tow, to escape whatever danger lurked within those walls.
When I called the gas company, of course, they were closed. My only options were to call back during “normal business hours” or “dial 911 if it’s an emergency.” Given that I believed my family might be in peril, I decided to call.
Operator: “911, what’s your emergency?”
Me: “Uh, I’m not sure it’s an emergency. Is there a number for non-emergency emergencies?”
Operator: “What’s your location?”
Me: “I don’t think I need anyone dispatched… Just a weird smell, possibly gas, but I’m not certain.” (I was cut off mid-sentence.)
New Operator: “This is the fire department. What’s your emergency?”
Me: (Great, now they’re sending the fire department with sirens blazing.) “It’s not really an emergency; I think I smell gas, but I don’t want to waste your time…”
Fire Department Operator: “Please hold.”
As I waited, my son whispered and pointed 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 outside.”
Son: “It’s not that.”
He lifted his blanket, releasing the most horrific smell I could imagine.
OMG, the beans! He devoured so many at dinner.
Hannah Reynolds
We didn’t have a gas leak; we had a child with the most epic flatulence imaginable.
Fire Department Operator: “Are you still there?”
Me: “Oh yes, never mind. The smell is gone. We don’t need assistance. Thanks!”
Fire Department Operator: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes, all good. False alarm. Bye!”
But it didn’t end there. Apparently, when you call 911 about a gas leak, you can’t just hang up. It’s treated like yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. That means protocol dictates that Hazmat-suited professionals show up at your door.
Yes, you read that right. Our house was searched with all kinds of tests because my son had the most noxious farts in history. When the “gas team” arrived, I insisted I didn’t smell anything anymore. I tried to send them on their way.
“Have a good night,” I said, attempting to close the door.
“Nice try,” one of them replied. “Ma’am, we shut down entire malls for strange odors. We might have to cut gas to the entire neighborhood if needed. Do you understand how serious this is?”
Me: “Yes, of course.” (I stepped back to let them in, worried about what my neighbors might think.)
As they searched my home, I shot my husband “the look.” The kind that says, “Do not say a word about the real cause of this smell.” I also instructed my son to stay hidden in his room.
The gas team conducted tests in every nook and cranny of our home for two hours—yes, two long hours—before confirming there was no gas leak (which we already knew). They left baffled by the source of the smell. Thank goodness they didn’t discover the truth!
All’s well that ends well, I suppose, although I did have to wear nose plugs to sleep that night. But we were safe, and I’ll count that as a win.
In hindsight, allowing my son to consume four massive bowls of charro beans at dinner and then alerting emergency services was perhaps not the best decision. But sometimes, after too many margaritas, parents make questionable choices. We’re only human, right?
From now on, we’ll definitely be sniffing our child’s rear end before calling 911.
For more stories and parenting tips, check out our other blog posts like this one on home insemination. And if you want more information on home insemination resources, check out this excellent site.
Summary: A humorous recount of a night filled with chaos after a child overindulged in beans, leading to a 911 call that resulted in a visit from Hazmat-suited professionals. The tale highlights the absurdities of parenting and the lengths we go to protect our families, along with a realization of the importance of double-checking before calling emergency services.