Denial

I'm very olfactory, among other things, I won't mention. I always smell my food before I eat it. I always have.

When my kids are near, I smell them too. I can often tell if they are getting sick, by their breath, which I refer to as "sick breath." I can smell "SB" a mile away.

The other day, as I was writing, Gio climbed into my lap, which he often does. His head was at the level of my nose, so I took a whiff, expecting to smell the sweet fragrance of shampoo.

"Eeew!" I exclaim. "His hair smells like Vinny has been spitting in it!"

"That's because he has." says Stefan.

"Did he lick his hair, or spit in it?" I ask as if there is a difference. Wait, there is. Spitting is, definitely, worse. I, myself, would much rather have someone lick my hair. I think Vinny has a little bit of dog up in him, because I have caught him licking Gio on many occasions.

"I caught him spitting once," says Stefan. "But if you ask him I am sure he'll deny it. He denied it when I caught him."

"Vinny did you lick Gio's hair?" I ask, in denial of the probability of spitting.

"What do you mean?" asks Vinny innocent as a thief.

Looks like denial runs in the family.