The Gross Zone

I was talking to a friend the other day about a favorite topic among boy moms… the gas boys pass.

And they seem to pass a lot.

“But hold on, Lin. Humans pass a lot of gas. Girls pass a lot of gas.”

You are correct. Let me not steer us wrong. I am assuming that both genders pass the same amount of gas. There is nothing in our chromosomal makeup that would preclude one gender from passing more gas than another.

That is purely up to genetics and probably more influential, the food we consume.

The difference is, boys tend to call attention to it. Trumpet it from the mountaintops. And think it’s hilarious. There are exceptions, of course on both sides, but on a whole, boys are to farts as girls are to… nothing. I simply cannot finish the analogy.

From a female perspective, boys are so very gross. I grew up with three brothers and I spent my entire childhood rolling my eyes at the antics: the absurdly gross things they did.

And now, I have three boys myself and I am in the gross zone once again. I have the nose of a bloodhound for sniffing out gas and pride myself in smelling it the moment it happens. Between the booger-picking, the dirt-rolling, the bug-smashing and puddle-jumping, my eyes are stuck in the up position, beseeching Heaven for commiseration.

Except, God made them. And He loves that about them. He loves the dirt and the freedom and restlessness… all the things He put into their little bodies. Their mom, however, wants to see them freshly bathed with clean ears and noses wiped.

Listen closely dear readers, for what I’m about to tell you has never been breathed before. It is too horrible. If you have a weak stomach or you are prone to nausea, leave now. This article is finished for you right here.

Those of you who are now reading these words, proceed with caution at your own risk. What you are about to read is a train wreck and you will not be able to look away.

It was an ordinary day where two of the three boys were getting ready for school. TJ was a baby, all of 1.5 years. He had probably just learned to walk and was making good use of those skills.

I was downstairs probably doing fifty things at one time including but not limited to: making lunches, making breakfast, feeding the dogs, making coffee and paying bills.

It was relatively quiet and I heard Sam start screaming. It was a strange scream that sounded like he had been hurt. Or seen a ghost. It was a scream of horrification.

I dropped what I was doing and ran upstairs, skipping stairs in between.

I heard the screaming from the bathroom: I ducked through one bedroom and ran to the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks.

I tried to take in everything I was seeing but it was too awful.

TJ was standing by Sam who was sitting backward on the toilet. TJs hands were covered in poop. He had smeared said poop all over Sam’s back.

There was poop on the floor and TJ had stepped in it. Sam was screaming in horror. Even though he was only 3.5 at the time, he knew that just wasn’t right.

I started screaming… an animalistic high-pitched squeal. Dave came running in from our bedroom. He saw the scene. He started screaming.

“What do we do oh my gosh where do we start,” were the words tumbling out of both of our mouths. I had been there longer so I took control.

“You grab TJs wrists so he can’t touch anything else! Take him to our bathroom and don’t let his feet touch the ground because he has poop on the bottom of his feet. Wipe him off then sanitize him in the shower! I’ll take care of Sammy and the mess in here!”

We sprang into action like a Nascar pit crew. After all, changing a tire certainly can’t be more difficult than this.

Dave managed to get TJ in the bathroom and wipe him down before he touched anything and I cleaned up Sammy and the bathroom explosion.

Afterward, we looked at each other. We look at each other a lot this way. The look contained so many words.

“I see you.”

“That was disgusting.”

“I’m tired.”

“No one would believe this is real.”

This is the same man who still giggles at farts. But at least he puts up a good front for the boys. His glances after each incident help me through the cleanup and get me through the day.

There is a new outrageous “gross” incident or three every day in this house, but I’d rather that than constantly worrying and chasing after with hand sanitizer and telling them not to get dirty. Because dirt is the outer shell of creativity.

One of these days, little sister and I will have a running commentary on the gross boys and I will teach her the fine art of rolling my eyes. And she will teach me how to giggle at the farts.

#boysaregross #momofthreeboys #momofboyslife #momofboysrock #raisingboys #booksforboys