The other day my son, Clyde, walked out of his room, inserted a finger into an orifice (it doesn’t really matter which orifice, except to say that it was one of his own), examined the contents on said fingertip, and then wiped everything on the couch. All while I was standing right in front of him, which leads me to believe that this is such a regular occurrence that he never even considered trying to hide it from me.
After haranguing Clyde for a few minutes (and making him wipe down the couch), I preceded to walk past my daughter, Clementine–who was sitting in the dining room eating a bowl of cereal–and into the kitchen. There I found a milk and cereal puddle that stretched so far out along one counter (and even to unknown realms, such as underneath the toaster oven), that I am sure that had Captain Hazelwood been piloting a large bowl of cereal instead of the oil tanker Valdez, Prince William sound would have looked only slightly worse than the mess on my counter.
After I similarly harangued Clementine about that mess (“How do you know it was me?” she asked with a mouth full of Rice Crispies), I retreated into my room and put my head underneath a pillow, hoping to avoid any more evidence of what I had been suspecting for some time now: I live in The Filthiest House in the World.
Having lived with my fair share of college room-mates, I never thought I would be in serious contention for this title once again; after all, I had finally moved out of the house with the room-mate who considered his frequent brushes with lice infestations to be “just a part of doing business.” And the room-mate who considered the toilet and the clothes hamper to be interchangeable. Thinking back, I now realize that, as disgusting as those room-mates were, at least they had the decency to try and hide their atrocities from me–at least a little bit.
A room-mate, when he takes a swig from your jug of milk, changes his mind mid-swallow and then spits the whole mess back into the jug–will at least turn his back to you, so that there is some doubt. (“Did you just…” “Did I just what?” “Never mind.”). A child, on the other hand, will do it right in front of you, and when confronted will respond with a defensive: “What?”
Perhaps I’m just being naive, but I like there to be some mystery in my life–especially when it comes to things that are disgusting. You tell me studies have shown that my kitchen sponge has more germs on it than the inside of my toilet bowl? Keep it to yourself. You say the average candy bar contains approximately 3.8 bug parts? Lalalala, can’t hear you.
I’ve heard it said that you know the romance has gone out of a relationship the first time you realize your partner is unashamed to trim his nose hairs in front of you; I would take it even further, and argue that it is when you realize your partner is unashamed to do it in front of you over the kitchen sink, or something similar.
I guess that means the romance went out of my relationship with my children on day one, because there has certainly never been any part of their “toilette” that they have ever hesitated to share with me.
Here’s the thing: I know that the world is a disgusting place, filled with disgusting people (I live with two of them). I’d just rather not have it brought home to me so viscerally, nor so often.
I guess I’m just one of those people who would rather not know that you dropped my toothbrush in the toilet–or, worse yet, that you dropped in on the kitchen sponge.