By Julie Hoag of juliehoagwriter.com
In my house of dysfunctional bathroom use, including poorly placed farts, I get little boys’ hilarious burps, foam darts whizzing past my computer screen to the tune of heckling laughter, and all sorts of other things I dare not mention, but just wait and I will. I barely flinch. It’s no doubt I’m living the boys’ life with four males in the house: my husband and three sons aged 12 and under. I like to think of us as 4 Alans and an Ann as these are our middle names. Sorry, boys, I won’t change my middle name to Alan to fit in.
First, let’s get gross. Moms of girls will probably not understand the following, you lucky ducks. Fellow moms of boys, you know who you are and I know you feel my pain. I can say one word and this word will flare up all kinds of emotions and images for you. Not good ones either. The word is bathroom.
It’s so great when the boys get out of diapers, right? Wrong. Not when there are the accidental drips, the fire hose sprays, the panicked denial sprinkler fountain, and the wall washer. I know you’ve seen these—I know I’m not the only one.
Our boys are twelve and under and we are on our third toilet seat. And it needs to be replaced again soon. The urine ate away at the hinges of the first toilet seat and it literally fell right off. I didn’t think that was possible. I’m learning properties of urine I wish I didn’t know, like how urine is also a toilet seat paint remover.
The second toilet seat we tried was the non-slamming, self-shutting type—great idea, right? But that backfired as the pee soaked into the hinges and the seat would no longer close but got stuck halfway down and needed to be forced the rest of the way. They never put the seat down anyway, so why bother forcing it down because it’s better left up. When it’s down they just pee on it.
Yeah, go on and pretend you’re not laughing at me right now. I know you are.
The caulk around the base of the toilet has been mostly eaten away and the yellow on the caulk won’t bleach out. Yelling, “Out, damn yellow spot!” doesn’t work either (as in Shakespearean Lady Macbeth fashion). I’ve tried. The wood on the floor around the toilet base lacks sheen as the varnish has been eaten away. I keep wipes in the bathroom, not just for use, but to wipe the seat so I can actually sit down like the only girl I am in the house. I keep the spray and a rag handy at all times. There is zero humor in sitting on a wet seat.
My husband and I plan to remodel and tile the bathroom floor, but not until we have better containment of liquids in our house. Girl moms, are you still with me or did you leave out of disgust? I don’t blame you, but I’d love your pity.
Now for bodily noises. The sound of farts makes them laugh, fake farts make them laugh, and real ones make them laugh. This is not new, young male behavior, but I get to experience it firsthand, so I’m sharing. Poorly timed farts are a joke to my middle son. Or perfectly timed in his opinion. He thinks it’s hilarious to deliver farts while standing next to me and to run away heckling. Girl moms may not know this term crop-dusting, which is when they fart and run around to share the stink. Burps also fall into this category of intentional bodily indiscretions, and somehow my 6-year old has mastered the art of burping on demand. I guess that’s sort of a talent. I should be so proud.
Nerf shooter wars happen in our house weekly, and the places bullets end up is almost a work of art. I will still find them in odd spots around the house when I am a grandma. We have foam bullets with bites taken out, foam bullets with names written on them, colored foam bullets, white glow-in-the-dark foam bullets, and half bullets still kept like treasure. Darts whiz past my head in the kitchen while I’m cutting fruit and hit me in various body parts. Visitors are amazed as I don’t move a single muscle as bullets zoom in between my head and the computer screen. The only foam bullet I really hate is the one that lands in my wine glass or coffee. It spoils a perfectly good beverage. Perhaps when I feel snarky I will weave them all into a pool raft for myself at 1 a.m. over a bottle of wine.
I wear my disgusting Mom-of-Boys Badge proudly. I swear an oath to rarely flinch, cry, shudder, or cringe as I trudge my way through these child raising years. I thought the diaper years were messy, but I had no clue how much worse it could become. Boys are stinky, messy, sometimes disgusting, but still joyful in their antics. I’ll keep finding new territory to remain stoic, even though inside the girl in me is freaking out.
This post was originally published on juliehoagwriter.com.
About the Author
Julie is a mother of three boys, a wife, and a mama also to furry babies: two rescue dogs and two guinea pigs. Julie writes on her blog about antics and life with all males in the house (the bathroom never stays guest ready for more than an hour), motherhood, kids, family, faith, vegetarian recipes, and parenting. Her essays/posts can be found on Sammiches and Psych Meds, Scary Mommy, Her View From Home, The Mighty, Parent.co (coming soon), Manifest Station (coming soon), & her own blog juliehoagwriter. Julie has survived working as SAHM, a pediatric nurse, a scientist, and a veterinary assistant. AFTER working on writing, she can be found cleaning up the messes of the boys/fur babies and playing chemist pool girl maintaining water chemistry; she laments she didn’t buy stock in a fabric stain remover company, as she’d be rich by now. Follow Julie on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.