Boy Gorge

I'm a prissy, prissy little girl.

It's not as bad it sounds. I don't enjoy figure skating, I've never gone for a luxurious mani/pedi day, and I spend less money on clothes than some monks.

My prissiness is wrapped up in my disdain for getting dirty — an affliction I've suffered from since I was a very young boy. I never liked stomping in puddles, and I used to get really annoyed when my pants would take on grass stains.

I'm not much different today. But my grime tolerance is gradually increasing as my Crazy Toddler immerses himself in the stickiness and ickiness of everyday childhood.

Let's start with food. CT is Boy Gorge. The Sultan of Slime. The King of Crusty Behavior. As I watched him down a banana-flavored snow cone today, the unsteadiness of his hand-eye coordination caused a syrupy mess the likes of which I am loathe to talk about.

But what can you do? He's not even 2 years old. A snow cone is his Everest (another big stumbling block is the 50-cent soft-serve cone at McDonald's. I might as well just strap the thing to his chest and end the dance before it begins.)

There's more. A simple dirt dig becomes a full-on soil relocation project (desination? everywhere in sight). A tumbler full of milk becomes paint for the couch. 0.08 seconds of nakedness on the heels of bathtime immediately leads to pee fountains onto the floor.

I can't blame CT, and I can't really change the situation until he's old enough to sternly shame into submission (just kidding, of course).

I have no choice but to embrace the grossness emanating from my son's body.

I need to "be the pee."