If someone told me thirteen or so years ago, that mom life would one day be me convincing my son that hoarding my dead body was a monumentally bad idea, I wouldn’t have believed them. Sometimes, I still don’t.
This is what a Dude House sounds like…
Me: Underwear actually aren’t a two day item. You have to take them off and put on fresh ones every day even if they don’t look or feel dirty. No, I’m not kidding and, yes, I’ve told you this before.
Anyone who mothers a son can tell you that they have this gross factor that is almost too disgusting to be real. Girl moms like to tell me that they are the proud owner of pretty gross kids too. Fine. Agreed, I don’t think I saw a nastier side of humanity before I moved into the dorms and experienced the foulness of 16 women sharing one bathroom. For me, the difference comes in the lack of shame, and even awareness. Girls don’t like their filthy secrets to get out. We like to pretend we’re clean and neat and tidy. Often even going to great lengths to make it appear that this is so to those around us whose approval we seek (boyfriends, mother in laws, neighbors who drop unannounced, probably on purpose). Dudes don’t put that level of effort into it. They seem to rarely even notice that they are being disgusting and, when they finally do, they don’t have the presence of mind to really give a care. This nonchalance continues into adulthood. Probably you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen a grown up lady hauck (apparently this is not a word) a loogie (and neither is this one, actually) in front of the gym. And, likely, each time you did you gagged a little and texted a friend. Yet, let a grown up dude do it and sure, you may gag if it’s a particularly chunky one, but mostly you probably don’t even notice. It’s certainly nothing to phone a friend about.
Me: It’s not that you’re using the word incorrectly, it’s that you’re using it at all. Kids can’t say shit, and that includes dip shit. Really, shit in any variation is gonna be a no go for you.
-Confession time: #3 curses. His third official word (we don’t count mama and dada), right behind book and me was crap. His first full sentence was “OH CRAP!” To date I would say that he has tried out pretty much every single curse word his ears have encountered. Fortunately, I don’t curse in front of my kids (other than crap, I say crap and freak pretty much always), so what he has heard has been limited and mostly coming from outside sources. I’ve thought so long about why he does it and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not because he thinks it’s funny or because he wants attention. He honestly just doesn’t understand why he can’t say those things when they make the most sense in a situation. Example: During our one and only camping trip to date, Mimi looked at a far off mountain while walking with #3 (age 3 at the time), turned to him and asked, “Wouldn’t you just love to climb to the top of that and look down?” His response, an entirely sensible, “Hell no I don’t want to climb all the way up there. It’s hot!” Made sense to me. Totally.
Me: Yes, when you’re finished building that teleporter we will go to Brazil, but I don’t think we’ll make it for World Cup.
Me: I really don’t know who Santa’s mom and dad are, and no, I’ve never Googled it before.
-We are pretty much finished with the make believe game here. In discussions regarding the Eastern Bunny who is slated to make an appearance next month, #3’s questions about the truth behind these mythical beings have gotten quite detailed. I’m guessing he’s too smart for me to keep this lie going. I’ve never been a really good liar and he’s always catching me in them anyway, with his but-I-thought-you-saids and but-what-abouts. I don’t have the mental capacity to keep up. I’ve known for years that it was smart than me. Plus, when it comes to magic you’re supposed to just believe, and if you can’t then probably you just don’t, right?
Me: Stop sliding on the bench. Stop sliding on the bench. Stop sliding on the bench. Stop sliding on the bench.
Me: I mean it, sometimes people just like to do things naked. Like cook or clean or whatever.
#3: Really? Because everyone I know likes to do things while they wear pants. Beyonce should wear pants and a shirt while she cooks dinner.
-Stop yer singing Beyonce. Also, we are officially listening to only the story telling channel in the car these days. Nothing else is safe anymore.
Me: I think that’s probably against the law, Sweetie, but I appreciate your desire to keep me close.
-#3 has this thing about death. He recently proclaimed that should I meet an untimely demise he plans to keep me in his room, under his bed, so that we can continue to be near me whenever he wants. He informed me that he won’t let the smell bother him, because no matter how badly I smell he is always going to love me. I appreciate that, for sure. We have to meet again this week to further discuss why I’m not okay with him hoarding my dead body. The last we spoke on it, he wasn’t interested in taking no for an answer and was not convinced that local law enforcement would have an issue with his choice (I belong to him so he should be able to keep me if he wants).