We get all kinds of kudos for our abilities to nurture and soothe and yank a dangling tooth, but when it comes to this particular knack, we get zilch. I’m talking, of course, about our ability to identify, withstand and cope with smells.

I don’t understand why mothers don’t get more recognition for the asset I am about to discuss.

We get all kinds of kudos for our abilities to nurture and soothe and yank a dangling tooth, but when it comes to this particular knack, we get zilch. I’m talking, of course, about our ability to identify, withstand and cope with smells.

This skill is tapped the day our kids are born, and it continues to be tapped until eternity. Fathers don’t warrant special recognition for this attribute because, frankly, they don’t seem to possess it. And this is not just my opinion –– it is the opinion of hundreds of research scientists whose names are available upon request.

These scientists, many of whom are employed by Jockey, have confirmed that, indeed, men are oblivious to scents that could fell a herd of charging holiday shoppers.

Why the plea for a little credit? In a word: It’s a Herculean task to be the family GPS (Grand Poobah of Smells).

Although I don’t change diapers anymore, I do recall my ability to detect a full diaper. For a while, my ability was so keen I could detect Le Load a room away. Whenever this happened, I would stop whatever I was doing and seek out the offender, which — no surprise here — would usually be sitting smack on my husband’s lap.

“How can you not smell that?” I would ask, incredulously.

“Smell what?” he would say with big, wide eyes.

A mother’s extraordinary talent to hang tight and soothe a yakking child deserves an Olympic gold medal. Honestly, it takes a tough cookie not to lose it when vomit molecules are making a nostril beeline.

And how about those untraceable odors that bring a household to its knees? You know the ones I’m talking about. They mysteriously arise and, just as mysteriously, refuse to leave. What’s more, they reduce us mothers to animals. One minute we’re standing upright, wondering what that funky smell is, and the next minute we’re down on all fours, rooting around like rabid beagles.

I am not kidding when I say it never ends. Just this summer, while my husband and I were away, my twenty-somethings put lobster remains in the trash and then forgot to take the trash out to the curb. The temperature soared that week. If you’ve ever wondered what the worst smell in the world is, well, it is not a rotting elephant corpse. It is weeks-old lobster trapped in a steamy garbage can.

In conclusion, we mothers deserve more recognition for our uncanny sense of smell. While words of appreciation are always welcome, roses are even better. Toss in some fragrant Chardonnay and we will never utter the expression “morning moose breath” again.

Anne Palumbo writes for Messenger Post Media in New York. Email her at avpalumbo@aol.com.