Boys Are Gross
Hola, Wild Boy friends and family, and welcome to a very early morning check in from La Casa de Testosterone. It's time change, and here I sit wide awake surveying the damage done during the week by the destructive chaos that is two little boys. I'd clean, but actually everyone else is sleeping. So instead, I'll check in here!
This week, we're going to return to a theme I know we've covered before and I'm SURE we'll cover again because it never ceases to amaze me: boys are gross.
Now, I know you've read that sentence and probably all chuckled and agreed, which is why I feel it necessary to expand on this a bit. Because the level of grossness I'm talking about here isn't chuckle and small smile to commiserate worthy. The level of grossness I'm addressing deserves PSA's with the little "the more you know" rainbow and star following it. It deserves after school specials with serious music, chronicling the mother broken down sucking her thumb in the fetal position, rocking back and forth in the corner of a room that at one time had a modest but tasteful decorating theme and now instead has not one, not two, but THREE glasses that careless boys drank all but half an inch of milk from and then left in front of the roaring fireplace overnight. Yes, three. Yes, I know there are two wild boys. No, I don't know who is responsible for the third glass. Yes, I can show you which corner of the room best accommodates tearful fetal rocking and thumb sucking.
This topic comes to light especially today because I have to have a friend ride in my car. Every mother reading this just had that involuntary butt pucker that accompanies the thought of someone riding in their car, you can admit it. Why? Because as often as we may clean (or even just tidy) our house, the car often remains the last bastion of "who cares, nobody sees this but me and the kids." When I took this car in for window tinting the man asked how dark I wanted the back windows.
Me: "As dark as humanly possible - make sure nobody can see in there."
Him: "So, the darkest legal tint?"
Me: "IS THAT WHAT I SAID???"
No, my kids aren't celebrities. Yes, my kids are often half naked. But worse, my kids eat back there.
I know, I know, I know, you're all saying to yourselves that I should just not allow my kids to have food in the car. That's a cute thought. I'm going to loan out Hangry Gabe to all of you ascribing to that school of thought along with our daily schedule which involves over an hour of commute time, practices, and homework before we ever get home and see how long you hold to that. Because he's little, but he's crafty. He pulled a plastic knife on my sister and threatened to cut her once, and he was only two at the time. So YOU tell that kid no snackies in the car, I dare you.
Meanwhile, I'll just pick out the top ramen packets that are moist from my kids licking them and shoving them in a seat back (no, I don't let my kids eat cold top ramen, but the black market of lunch trades has made them rich men since they convinced me to invest in Nutella) and attempt to vacuum up all visible petrified French fry remnants while simultaneously febreezing the hell out of that bad boy and hope for the best.
But lets suppose I didn't allow food in the car. I'd like to introduce you to a secondary issue that presents a problem. People, the other day I walked into my living room and stopped dead in my tracks when the smell of vomit hit me in a wave. And not pet vomit (although at one point this week my cat did manage to climb on the back of a recliner and projectile vomit two feet away onto a tiny end table only big enough for the telephone and phone book - I wanted to be mad but frankly the aim and sheer physics involved were amazing), but the actual sour stench of human puke. And I thought "NO WAY!!!! They ALWAYS make it to the bathroom, and there's NO WAY they wouldn't tell me if they puked." But the smell remained, and I believe I've already pointed out that boys are gross...So I did what any mother would do. I scanned the room for anything obvious, and when nothing became apparent I dropped to all fours and started bloodhounding out the reek. I'm not proud. I'm just a mom. The source? Gabe's shoes. I'm not even kidding. I actually retched and dry heaved a little. AND HE'S ONLY EIGHT!!!! Now, factor in that he has to change from those tennis shoes into cleats and vice versa three days a week. In the car.
So yeah, I think not eating in the car isn't going to entirely quell the issue of yuck. And for today, I've done what I can and am now just banking on the fact that the friend going with me has kids of her own and isn't going to be too phased. Or question why I travel with full bottles of Febreeze. If she's smart she'll just be quietly grateful, and help out by spritzing a bit toward the back seat on the occasions that the demon funk reek rears it's ugly head.
Until next time, happy travels from la Casa!
This week, we're going to return to a theme I know we've covered before and I'm SURE we'll cover again because it never ceases to amaze me: boys are gross.
Now, I know you've read that sentence and probably all chuckled and agreed, which is why I feel it necessary to expand on this a bit. Because the level of grossness I'm talking about here isn't chuckle and small smile to commiserate worthy. The level of grossness I'm addressing deserves PSA's with the little "the more you know" rainbow and star following it. It deserves after school specials with serious music, chronicling the mother broken down sucking her thumb in the fetal position, rocking back and forth in the corner of a room that at one time had a modest but tasteful decorating theme and now instead has not one, not two, but THREE glasses that careless boys drank all but half an inch of milk from and then left in front of the roaring fireplace overnight. Yes, three. Yes, I know there are two wild boys. No, I don't know who is responsible for the third glass. Yes, I can show you which corner of the room best accommodates tearful fetal rocking and thumb sucking.
This topic comes to light especially today because I have to have a friend ride in my car. Every mother reading this just had that involuntary butt pucker that accompanies the thought of someone riding in their car, you can admit it. Why? Because as often as we may clean (or even just tidy) our house, the car often remains the last bastion of "who cares, nobody sees this but me and the kids." When I took this car in for window tinting the man asked how dark I wanted the back windows.
Me: "As dark as humanly possible - make sure nobody can see in there."
Him: "So, the darkest legal tint?"
Me: "IS THAT WHAT I SAID???"
No, my kids aren't celebrities. Yes, my kids are often half naked. But worse, my kids eat back there.
I know, I know, I know, you're all saying to yourselves that I should just not allow my kids to have food in the car. That's a cute thought. I'm going to loan out Hangry Gabe to all of you ascribing to that school of thought along with our daily schedule which involves over an hour of commute time, practices, and homework before we ever get home and see how long you hold to that. Because he's little, but he's crafty. He pulled a plastic knife on my sister and threatened to cut her once, and he was only two at the time. So YOU tell that kid no snackies in the car, I dare you.
Meanwhile, I'll just pick out the top ramen packets that are moist from my kids licking them and shoving them in a seat back (no, I don't let my kids eat cold top ramen, but the black market of lunch trades has made them rich men since they convinced me to invest in Nutella) and attempt to vacuum up all visible petrified French fry remnants while simultaneously febreezing the hell out of that bad boy and hope for the best.
But lets suppose I didn't allow food in the car. I'd like to introduce you to a secondary issue that presents a problem. People, the other day I walked into my living room and stopped dead in my tracks when the smell of vomit hit me in a wave. And not pet vomit (although at one point this week my cat did manage to climb on the back of a recliner and projectile vomit two feet away onto a tiny end table only big enough for the telephone and phone book - I wanted to be mad but frankly the aim and sheer physics involved were amazing), but the actual sour stench of human puke. And I thought "NO WAY!!!! They ALWAYS make it to the bathroom, and there's NO WAY they wouldn't tell me if they puked." But the smell remained, and I believe I've already pointed out that boys are gross...So I did what any mother would do. I scanned the room for anything obvious, and when nothing became apparent I dropped to all fours and started bloodhounding out the reek. I'm not proud. I'm just a mom. The source? Gabe's shoes. I'm not even kidding. I actually retched and dry heaved a little. AND HE'S ONLY EIGHT!!!! Now, factor in that he has to change from those tennis shoes into cleats and vice versa three days a week. In the car.
So yeah, I think not eating in the car isn't going to entirely quell the issue of yuck. And for today, I've done what I can and am now just banking on the fact that the friend going with me has kids of her own and isn't going to be too phased. Or question why I travel with full bottles of Febreeze. If she's smart she'll just be quietly grateful, and help out by spritzing a bit toward the back seat on the occasions that the demon funk reek rears it's ugly head.
Until next time, happy travels from la Casa!
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