Sunday, March 30, 2014

Mothers of boys learn fast

As I enter into a new week, I am pausing to contemplate the many complexities that are found in the human boy. Steel yourselves, gentle readers, for some slightly crass bathroom talk may commence. I have been noticing some suspicious yellow colored drops on the rim of the tub, you know, where you rest your arms when soaking in a therapeutic manner? I immediately knew what it was even though I didn't smell it (did that once...lesson learned). My problem was, well, I did not know how it could get in that exact location. Inside the tub? Yes. On the floor beside the tub? Yes. On the top rim of the tub? Stumped. So, I asked him. We have one sleepwalking child in the house, so I really wasn't going to be surprised if he had no recollection of how it came to pass . He knew he had done it, but seemed to have trouble articulating exactly why and how it happened. I started to get annoyed. I mean, if I had accidentally made a mess on the tub, I think it would be pretty clear how it happened. "Well, Mom, you know. Well, you know it happens, well, I can't really... I just don't exactly know." At this point, I was mentally done having just folded my 75th pair of socks or underwear and I just wanted to know how to stop the yellow drops from happening again. "Son. I am tired. I just need to know...was your penis with you all day today? I mean, how do you not know what happened?". Well, as soon as I said the "P" word, that child was in a fit of laughter for the rest of the evening. I think he laughed himself to sleep. Was I wrong? Should I not hve asked that? And whilst on the subject of yellow drops, I cleaned the bathroom yesterday. Oftentimes, the notion crosses my mind that I am just going to stop cleaning and see how long it takes before the offenders get grossed out by what they find in the bathroom.  The kid can shoot a suction cup Nerf dart and stick it to a doorknob all the way across the room, but he basically just carpet bombs the right side of the toilet.  I have learned there is no point in playing a game of bathroom cleaning chicken with a 7 year old. The mom will crack first. With every spray of Clorox Clean Up, I muttered little bits of profanity under my breath. How can he not see this? I know how...he never stays still for any time longer than what it takes to go to the bathroom. He's 7.

Even with mysterious yellow drops and Tasmmanian Devil type speed, I must confess that I have a weak spot for that child. He is the most loving little guy I know. Yes, he went to his friend's birthday pool party and sat on the sprinkler to make it look like he was peeing on the entire party (I honestly don't think he realized what he was doing until everybody pointed it out and then he found it funny), but he is not intentionally rude. He cannot bear having anyone angry at him. He is a militant rule follower. He kisses his sisters goodnight and still grabs my hand when we walk through the Kroger parking lot. When we sit on the couch to watch a show, he snuggles up to my side, gives a heavy sigh and relaxes. I am so proud of the young man my little guy has become. The yellow drops can be addressed later. He'll only snuggle up to me for so much longer. I cherish every little boy second I can get...precious time. Precious time.


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