And no, I’m not just now figuring that out. I’ve actually been aware of this male trait for quite some time, however, only recently I have been reminded over and over (and over) of all the ways in which boys can be gross. Very, very gross. Disgusting, even.
Probably the least-gross boy in my family is my husband. (You’re welcome, Honey.) He really has very few gross things that he does, and that is a good thing. I will refrain from listing them here, because I really, really enjoy it when he makes dinner and helps with the laundry, and I do not wish to jeopardize those perks at this time.
However. That is where the un-grossness stops. I have an almost 16-year-old son who has managed, several times during his short life, to top out the grossness scale. I keep consoling myself with the hope that one day he will have a girl who notices this grossness and ever-so-politely tells him to OMG try wearing socks with your shoes in the summertime!
I’ll not even go into detail regarding the pigsty of his room. In fact, I have recently placed it on the no-entry list (sort of like the no-fly list), and I refuse to go in there unless there is a dire, extremely urgent, and even life-threatening event occurring inside. In such case, I would go in—right after locating my gas mask and Tyvek suit.
Then we jump all the way down to the two little boys. Three-year-old boys that like bugs and worms and dirt and boogers, not necessarily in that order. Oh yeah, and poop. They LOVE them some poop (as you may know from previous posts).
So. Last night, we had a lovely bubble bath. And by the way, here’s my formula:
lots of dirt + lots of bubbles = relatively clean
It was a nice, long bubble bath for them, mostly because when I have them corralled in the tub, I can actually make it through folding an entire load of towels before there is an emergency requiring my attention. While they are soaking and turning into little pruny suds-monsters, I can usually get a few things done in my room. As long as they are within eyesight and within easy sprinting distance, I figure I am safe.
And after the super-sudsy bubble bath, we even put on some really clean-smelling lotion, brushed hair and teeth, and then we went downstairs. That’s where things started to unravel. And get gross.
I need to interject here that lately we have had a bit of a fly problem. We have swatted and sprayed and squashed, and they still keep showing up. It’s sort of driving us crazy that we can’t get rid of them, so we find a small bit of joy in smashing them every chance we get. Because that’s what we do for fun at night in the suburbs. You ought to come over on a weekend, because then we get really crazy.
We had just settled in the living room to watch Max & Ruby, which is WAY better than, say, any adult programming, like the NEWS, for instance. (Minor sarcasm there.) So Max was making mud pies, and Ruby was whining and bitching at him (because that’s what she always does), and right in the middle of the show, Jadon comes running across the room.
“Mama, Mama! I ‘quished a bug!” Great, so now the 3-year-old is getting in on the bug-squishing craze.
I flashed him my best glazed-over, tired-mommy grin and pretended the most enthusiasm I had felt all day. “You did?!” I even threw in a gasp, to make it seem ultra-impressive.
And I was impressed until he showed me the weapon he had used in his bug-squishing rampage—his hands! His clean, still pruny little hands were covered in fly guts. Guys, we’re not talking about the remains of one dead fly here. We’re talking his hands were COVERED in smooshed fly guts, little green eyeballs stuck between his pudgy fingers, little fly legs under his fingernails.
I didn’t have a whole lot of processing time, so pretty much my first reaction was, “EWWWWW!!” followed by a few more of those words we don’t say. Oh, we say those words. We certainly do.
Again, I was faced with a moral dilemma in mothering. I could either a) return him to the tub and begin the kid-cleaning process all over again or b) sort of splash some water from the kitchen sink on his hands, mix it with some soap, and call it a day.
I chose option B. Because any good mommy knows that a few fly guts are good for the immune system, right? They have to learn to fight off those germs and diseases and such. And in my defense, I followed the soap with a healthy dose of hand sanitizer.
But it still sort of creeped me out when he later picked up a cookie in his previously-fly-covered hands. Nothing like a little protein with dessert.
This is one of the 50 gazillion reasons why boys are gross.