Stefani and I were chatting about the Georgian Boy using the plunger to unclog my sink when the conversation led to more grossness. Being a mother of three, two of which are boys under the age of 8, she’s starting to see just how gross boys really are.
My brothers and I were prime examples. Taking advantage of the fact that Dad was passed out by 11, and lightening the situation, we’d play tricks on him. My brother, who had eaten 4 bowls of clam chowder that night, would go in the other room, fart in a jar, seal it, then go into the living room where Dad was bobbing his head and gently wake him up to smell the jar. In a stupor, he’d stick his nose inside, take a whiff, then jerk his head back in disgust and yell, “Jesus! Get that poison away from me!” We’d all cripple over in laughter as he fell back asleep.
Keeping things interesting and ideas evolving, we came up with new ways to preserve the smell. We discovered that cotton balls at the bottom of the jar helped absorb the scent. Then we discovered that plastic peanut butter jars were better than glass jars because you could squeeze them upon impact.
When farting in jars became juvenile, we switched to more mature tactics like using a brown marker to draw skid marks on a paper plate then wiping our ass on it and telling Dad to “Scratch N’ Sniff.” You should have seen the way his neck snapped sideways when he smelt his finger. Looking back at it now, it’s obvious that he knew what we were up to, just how gross we really were, but would play along because he knew how much it meant that his boys were happily entertained.
Mom always said that boys were easier to raise than girls, but they’re definitely grosser. I told Stefani to expect her boys to do a lot of gross things, especially the older they get, but to never worry about it because it’s completely natural. Boys are just gross.