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 Tornado A 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 “TORNADO E!” even though he was safe at school. Lucky.
Tornado E 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 Tornado E 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.