What's That Smell?
Hola Wild Boy friends and family! Welcome back to another tour through the horror that is parenting my wild children. It's been a while, and I'd like to be able to tell you that's because they've done nothing remarkable whatsoever. But in truth I've just been horribly lazy.
That's only part true. See, we're trying this new parenting thing where we make the children be responsible for their own belongings and accountable for their own actions. They also have to do things like chores, because the cop swears they ARE, in fact, capable of being productive members of this family. The corresponding trauma on my part in having to let go of my helicopter mom tendencies and set aside my OCD to accept their definition of "clean" has resulted in me spending large amounts of time drinking just enough to not care. How much is that, you ask? I haven't actually reached the amount yet, and am considering just resorting to rubbing alcohol to lose my sight entirely because it seems like that would be both faster and cheaper.
In all seriousness though, baseball season is upon us. And let me tell you, while I enjoy soccer season and tolerate basketball season and throw just enough money at golf that I can be left alone while they play with the cop, I LOVE baseball season. It is my parenting passion. Which is how I tolerate six days a week of it, because once the games start that's how often I'm dodging saliva drenched sunflower shells and sun burning with enough regularity to put my dermatologist's kids through school. Games don't start for another two weeks, which means right now between the two boys we are only dealing with roughly 11 hours of practice per week. But the recent bad weather threw off our schedule, and so today was a makeup practice for Gav. Three hours of practice at the butt crack of dawn the first day of time change. Seriously brutal.
I got a few miles in with a girlfriend (although at one point I had to consider begging her Yorkshire Terrier to pull me up at least one hill...and was reminded why I have big dogs), got the car washed and still managed to watch a solid hour of practice. The cop and Gabe went to a separate field and practiced a few hours on their own. And when all was said and done we loaded up and went to run some errands. Which is when we noticed the smell.
At first it was mild. It was just a subtle lingering at the back of the nasal cavity that gently prodded your mind with unpleasant images like dirty shoes or sweat stained t shirts. But the longer we stayed in the car, and in tight quarters, the worse it became. And finally, at the check stand in the grocery store, the hubs looked at me over the boys heads and mouthed "Oh my God, it's Gavin."
And I mouthed "DUH - he's been practicing for three hours. And since I'm NOT ALLOWED TO HELICOPTER MOM he's for SURE not wearing deodorant. WE ALL PAY WHEN YOU MAKE THEM GET THEMSELVES READY."
But mouthing sentences that long doesn't work, and the cop and everyone standing nearby just thought I was having some kind of seizure or mental break down. Bright side - we moved through the line a little quicker. Down side, people will for sure be thinking of us as the crazy stank-ass family from here on out.
As we progressed to Starbucks for some prayer at staying awake the rest of the day the cop whispered to me "he seriously stinks - it's everywhere, even his hands!" Folks, this is no surprise to me because I am constantly tasked with driving the Wild Boys after practices and games. The cop has recently changed his schedule enough to not have to sneak in and watch games on duty for five minutes in between calls for service, and it's a blessing to me but this funk may make him rethink it. And I pointed out that he may have stinky hands from his batting gloves, at which point the cop inquired as to whether or not he stores his gloves in the vicinity of his ass when he isn't playing because the stink was unholy. Again, I pointed out that I am NO LONGER allowed to manage any of their gear, and all inquiries should be forwarded to the Wild Boys. Pretty sure he's reconsidering my helicopter mom help at this point, because between stinky sport boy and little Gabe trying to make us guess what food he ate in the last day that's making his farts smell this bad for the entire drive home both of us have maxed out our capacity of mouth breathing for the day.
But for now, we're just going to appreciate being home where there is a shower readily available. Maybe in my "non-helicoptering" spare time I'll craft myself a necklace out of air fresheners, because it's only getting warmer. Until next time, happy inhaling from la Casa!
That's only part true. See, we're trying this new parenting thing where we make the children be responsible for their own belongings and accountable for their own actions. They also have to do things like chores, because the cop swears they ARE, in fact, capable of being productive members of this family. The corresponding trauma on my part in having to let go of my helicopter mom tendencies and set aside my OCD to accept their definition of "clean" has resulted in me spending large amounts of time drinking just enough to not care. How much is that, you ask? I haven't actually reached the amount yet, and am considering just resorting to rubbing alcohol to lose my sight entirely because it seems like that would be both faster and cheaper.
In all seriousness though, baseball season is upon us. And let me tell you, while I enjoy soccer season and tolerate basketball season and throw just enough money at golf that I can be left alone while they play with the cop, I LOVE baseball season. It is my parenting passion. Which is how I tolerate six days a week of it, because once the games start that's how often I'm dodging saliva drenched sunflower shells and sun burning with enough regularity to put my dermatologist's kids through school. Games don't start for another two weeks, which means right now between the two boys we are only dealing with roughly 11 hours of practice per week. But the recent bad weather threw off our schedule, and so today was a makeup practice for Gav. Three hours of practice at the butt crack of dawn the first day of time change. Seriously brutal.
I got a few miles in with a girlfriend (although at one point I had to consider begging her Yorkshire Terrier to pull me up at least one hill...and was reminded why I have big dogs), got the car washed and still managed to watch a solid hour of practice. The cop and Gabe went to a separate field and practiced a few hours on their own. And when all was said and done we loaded up and went to run some errands. Which is when we noticed the smell.
At first it was mild. It was just a subtle lingering at the back of the nasal cavity that gently prodded your mind with unpleasant images like dirty shoes or sweat stained t shirts. But the longer we stayed in the car, and in tight quarters, the worse it became. And finally, at the check stand in the grocery store, the hubs looked at me over the boys heads and mouthed "Oh my God, it's Gavin."
And I mouthed "DUH - he's been practicing for three hours. And since I'm NOT ALLOWED TO HELICOPTER MOM he's for SURE not wearing deodorant. WE ALL PAY WHEN YOU MAKE THEM GET THEMSELVES READY."
But mouthing sentences that long doesn't work, and the cop and everyone standing nearby just thought I was having some kind of seizure or mental break down. Bright side - we moved through the line a little quicker. Down side, people will for sure be thinking of us as the crazy stank-ass family from here on out.
As we progressed to Starbucks for some prayer at staying awake the rest of the day the cop whispered to me "he seriously stinks - it's everywhere, even his hands!" Folks, this is no surprise to me because I am constantly tasked with driving the Wild Boys after practices and games. The cop has recently changed his schedule enough to not have to sneak in and watch games on duty for five minutes in between calls for service, and it's a blessing to me but this funk may make him rethink it. And I pointed out that he may have stinky hands from his batting gloves, at which point the cop inquired as to whether or not he stores his gloves in the vicinity of his ass when he isn't playing because the stink was unholy. Again, I pointed out that I am NO LONGER allowed to manage any of their gear, and all inquiries should be forwarded to the Wild Boys. Pretty sure he's reconsidering my helicopter mom help at this point, because between stinky sport boy and little Gabe trying to make us guess what food he ate in the last day that's making his farts smell this bad for the entire drive home both of us have maxed out our capacity of mouth breathing for the day.
But for now, we're just going to appreciate being home where there is a shower readily available. Maybe in my "non-helicoptering" spare time I'll craft myself a necklace out of air fresheners, because it's only getting warmer. Until next time, happy inhaling from la Casa!
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