They are, seriously. I know that I used to know that, once upon a time. The vast majority of my close friends growing up–right up until I had kids, actually–were of the male species…er, sex.
We tend to forget about olfactory (smell) memory, but who can deny the emotions roused from that certain smell? Good smells–like cookies, or bad smells–like the teenage boy. Even writing this, my nose remembers the sour stankness that announced the perimeter line of a boy’s room. Admittedly I have a slightly overactive imagination, but I assume the ingredients for such an odor are the result of puberty, sports equipment, sweat, and–(sigh) forgotten gym socks that are crusty from something other than sweat. The only smell that can rival that particularly offensive nastiness is dirty, wet dog on a carpet. And even then…
When I gave birth to my precious, sweet-smelling sons, the sensory memory of boyhood faded, and was mostly forgotten. But, like the smell of gumbo cooking (for me) can bring back a thousand forgotten moments, my first whiff of Zach’s feet after a day in sandals without socks–at 15 months old–brought back the stank of boy. Then I made my husband smell them (why, why do we all immediately go smell something gross on demand?) and he shared my horror.
Yesterday afternoon I watched my oldest child use his feet to pick up a piece of dropped muffin off the floor. Then he ate it before I could get, “dude, don’t do that” out of my mouth.
Yes, you can urinate while standing on two feet. Yes, this is a remarkable feat, of which I am actually extraordinarily jealous.
Yes women, when they hover in public restrooms, also tend to make a mess. However, I am at home. At home my toilets are almost always (grin) clean enough that I feel safe sitting on the seat.
I am outnumbered already and Elliot isn’t even potty trained yet. Our house only has one and a half bathrooms at the moment, which makes the bathroom we use the most often the same room that other people use, too. So when I sat down in front of the toilet to fix the caulk around the outside of the tub (yup, old house + old bathroom = monthly recaulking) and smelt urine, I was a little embarrassed.
Then I thought, well, I’m already caulking. It wouldn’t hurt to touch up around the toilet. Which is how I ended up between the toilet and the wall. And it’s how I saw…PEE ON MY WALL.
That’s right, people. Pee. On. My. Wall. Not just a little, one-time missed aim, either. This was an accumulation of bad aim–from any number of suspects. Cue the “Great Bathroom Cleaning of 2010”.
Boys are gross. Just gross.
Now a more prideful woman would keep this information to herself and would never, ever announce that there was PEE ON THE WALL to the entirety of the internet.
But then how would other mothers know to go check their walls for urine? If I can save just one woman…