I’m really starting to hate this

I grew up with boys.  I have two little brothers.  And not the ah-how-cute-Fae-gets-to-play-little-mother kind, but the my-little-brother-is-15-months-younger-than-I kind.  We could’ve been raised as twins, if my mom hadn’t been raised as a twin to her 13 month older sister.  (I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.  Vatican Roulette is not a suitable birth control; someone please inform the men in Rome who apparently missed that biology lesson.)  Not only was I raised with two brothers, but the vast majority of my cousins are boys.  I spent weekends with my little brothers and my older boy cousins.  If that wasn’t enough, I was the only girl in the neighborhood AND my little brother, being the ever social butterfly, adopted his two best friends into our household, so the number of boys double to four.

So when it came to boys, I saw the good, the kind, the stupid, and the cruel.  And the gross.  From jock straps being sling shot across the room to bug eating dares to vomit stories (which I could now win, thanks to morning sickness) to smear stains (that was when I flat-out refused to do any laundry but my own) to gore movies to human body tricks, I’m pretty much ungrossed out.  (Except one thing, which will not be mentioned so that no one can ever use it against me.)  My god, I shared a bathroom with those four animals until college.  To keep from being a target of such grossness, I learned hold my own, like when my dad thought he could scare/sicken us to be better drivers by bringing home autopsy pictures, I examined them with glee.  My brothers turned a little green.  False bravado will take you far.

But even with all that preparation, that hardening of the stomach, I was nearly brought to my knees yesterday.  I decided to take the extra precaution to keep Aidan asleep and use the boys’ bathroom.  I lifted up the lid.  To find sh*t smeared on the seat.  I dropped the lid and yelled “EVAN!”  even though he was safe at school.  Lucky.

Evan tends to wait on wiping himself.  I don’t understand why, but he does.  I have to remind him over and over and over.  Apparently the other day, he decided to sit on the edge of the seat to talk to his brother.  Before wiping himself.  Leaving, not a tiny smear, but a bunch of sh*t. 

So I had a few options, trash the toilet (stupid rental), wait for Evan to clean it (how do I explain my son getting e. coli), con someone else to clean it (too bad my mark was in California, lucky bastard), or clean it myself (ah, crap).  Then I did what any parent would do.  I started to mumble curses under my breath as I stomped to the kitchen and grabbed all the cleaners.  I stomped back to the bathroom, mumbling more curses.  Then I sprayed and disinfected and scrubbed (with bleach wipes) until I took off all but the bottom layer of paint .  Mumbling more curses.

God, I hate potty training.

Bathroom time!

Bathroom time is an unusual event in my household.  (When it occurs)  It usually has to involve a bowl movement.  A group bowl movement.  Because Evan NEEDS company.  Apparently I haven’t done my job in teaching him that bathroom time means privacy.  I try to lead by example, guarding my bathroom time as my only alone time throughout the day.  (Ok, not quite; I still have an hour of nap time or so, but still).  Now if only I could shut and lock the door without fear that someone would end up bloody or something valuable be broken.  Not that we have anything of value anymore except the TV, the Wii, and the computer.  Even my jewelry box is not sacred.

So Evan NEEDS company as he’s sitting on the john.  And I can’t take the smell any more.  I did my years of potty training, waiting with grace as I read one book after another, coming up with stimulating stories, wiping his @ss too many times.  I just Can. Not. Take that smell.  Anymore.

Since I get to plead out to do things like diaper changes, feeding, dishes, cooking, sweeping, wrestling with an alligator, and picking my nose, Evan has learned to con his little brother to sit with him.  Sean will bring Evan any toy or book that Evan fancies at that moment.  Then they will proceed to play and tell stories for a half hour.

Often Sean gets the urge to relieve himself, and then the bathroom is doubly stinky.  Evan sits on the toilet, and Sean sits on the training potty (because they need to go to the bathroom at the same time more often that not).  They face each other.  They tell stories, read books, play with their Jedis or pirates.

Maybe it’s my fault.  I do take longer in the restroom than needed if I can.  Mommy needs her peace.  And during the summer, it’s too hot to hide in the garage for too long.  In the winter, it’s too cold.  Besides I can always lock the bathroom door, if I don’t mind boys banging on it, demanding that I let them in or that I come get them something to eat/play with/drink.  So maybe I’ve set a bad example there.

But nothing could prepare me for the feces smear across the toilet because Evan had gone, not wiped, and moved to the edge of the seat to finish his game with Sean.  Ewwwwww.

Boys are so gross.

An Urban Myth with Facts

The husband walked in the room and said Up started at 10:45.  It was already 10:15, with the house still destroyed by the boys, no shoes, and a shirtless Evan.  With the precision of the military, the toys were put away, the boys shoed, the husband dressed.  Of course, the husband failed to remember that we were no longer two adults that speed to catch a flick, dash across a parking lot, pay, buy snacks as the other grabs just two seats.  Now we herd the boys towards the car like dragging them to bed, only with more enthusiasm.  We buckle the boys in and are sent to grab that one thing they just can’t live without.  I pay very close attention to those traffic laws now that I carry precious cargo.  We unbuckle the boys.  We doddle through the parking lot.  It takes several times for the husband to hear my suggestion of the debit machine, rather than wait in line with two boys, waiting to bolt.  While the husband still gets snacks, I herd the boys to the bathroom instead of the seats.

After I convinced Evan that the toilet will not flush on him nor suck him down into the toilet with its mighty flush, Evan peed.  I reminded him not to play with the stream.

“Why?”

Because I don’t want you to leak.

“Why?”

Because I don’t want to clean it up.

“Why?”

Because we’ll be late for the movie.  Pull up your pants. 

Hey, guess what.  We’re in the why-phase, and more on that on another post.

So I used the restroom.  While I hurried, flushing the toilet as I pulled out of my shorts, my keys fell into the flushing toilet.  For a half second, I stood there because there’s no way my heavy key set with its four keys, pocket knife, car clicker, and a half dozen club cards would go down the drain.  I reached in just in case.

My keys were shoved through the drain, just as my fingers scraped against them.  They were gone.  The water was gone.  The toilet filled to normal level.  My mouth hung open.

ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME?

CCRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAPP!

Boys, come one.  We got to go.  We got to wash our hands and find someone.  I think they’re gone anymore.  Quickly.  Hurry.  Come on.  Let’ s go!

But it was too late.  They were gone, washed away done the sewer.  Damn.