Eleanor-Neck-Smelleanor.

She comes from the bath, after a good luxurious scrub - gurgling, snugly and adorable. You dress her in something that highlights her perfectly pudgy legs and blue eyes. You bend over her smiling face, and inhale deeply. Feet, lovely. Knees, heavenly. Tummy, divine. Hands, perfection. Neck. Wait, hold on here. You know that smell. Like Parmesan cheese has been curdled in the neckmeat of the sweet baby you wash with lavender and lotion with honey. The baby you dress in soft cotton, and whose hair is like strands of cinnamon-scented silk. Your nose seeks out the funk, and finds it nestled in folds of soft skin. No matter how well you think you have deciphered the many chins of your baby, there is inevitably one piece of real estate within one chin that you have not fully explored. And there, brewing between two pieces of orange blossom skin, is yesterday's milk. Not only is the scent like something you could only find at a European delicatessen, the consistency is certainly one of an aged french wheel. At this point, your only solace may be removing the offending fromage, and smelling somewhere else.