When you live with three boys.
I’m a girly girl. I love make up, shopping, shoes & clothes, I hate camping, mud and Spiderman.
Not wanting to state the obvious but I live with three boys. That’s right, three stinking, smelly, grubby boys. Which means that as the children grow up, I am slowly being engulfed with three times the irritations which come with boys. THREE TIMES the things which sometimes make me want to beat my husband to death with a frozen Froob. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive, what with cutting back on booze, how am I going to cope?
NO. I’m not exaggerating. Currently I have two boys who contribute to those sticky yellow dribbles on and around the three toilets in my house, and one of those is quite conciousness about it (The Beast hates leaving a mess thank god), what about when it’s all three of them, and they don’t care? Or are hung over? or drunk? This also means I have two people who currently leaving the toilet lid open, not a crime normally, but this does allow for boy number three to happily drop whatever he’s carrying into the skid marked toilet (YES THEY LEAVE THAT THERE TOO). Whether it’s a toy, a cup or a packet of raisins.
I also have three people who fart, and who think it’s funny. Who burp and laugh, who pooh (two in the toilet one in a nappy), and stink my house out to the limit that no amount of scented candles and febreeze can fight through the mist. Do boys just produce vomit inducing smells or is it because they spend about twenty years producing said pooh? Often requesting a book or newspaper?
Windows in this house need to be flung open so we can all breathe properly, however, they can only be left on ventilate, as boy number three is what is known as “a climber”. I spend my life breathing through my mouth.
I have two boys who leave their shoes randomly in the hall, RIGHT NEXT TO their assigned locations. Little mud trails are ground into my carpet, and for some reason, the entertainment value of flicking off our shoes without using our hands far outweighs the scuff marks on my walls. Boy number two may be probably the best at placing his shoes in the assigned location, however, if boy number one happens to leave his piled up by the back door he quickly follows suit, after all, like father like son. Oh, and it’s not just shoes that get left in the hall, piles of coats, paperwork, toys, brief cases, school bags on the stairs, sitting there ready to trip me over. I’ve been known to be petty, been known to leave it there as a test to see how long it’s taken to collect.
Oh, and it’s not just the floor, nope, stuff can be left randomly on work surfaces and tables. BEER BOTTLE CAPS *breathes* are left on the counter (or cutlery drawer), smoothie carton straws are left on chair arms, dummies are left FRICKING EVERYWHERE. Chocolate wrappers, crisp packets, tissues, glasses and cups just left without thought on window sills, the TV cabinet, the bed, the toilet cistern.
Apparently boys also have selective vision.
Which I guess can be proven in that both boys look for things “like a boy”. You know what I mean, things are yanked out of cupboards, papers scattered on the desk, laundry dumped from ironing basket to the floor “I can’t find it! I’ve looked EVERYWHERE, my favourite t.shirt/cufflinks/spiderman/contact lense solution/Woody’s Hat, they’ve VANISHED, GONE FOR EVER!” Only for me to walk into a room, and pick up the missing item from the top of a pile.
The traits are there, have been their from early on, it’s not something that they pick up, it’s something they’re born with. No matter how hard you try to steer boys their subconcious will ensure they veer off in the wrong direction, you know, the boy way.
Man flu, snoring, complaining, telling me how to park properly (don’t get me started on how boy one AND boy two comment daily on the distance between the curb and my car), the list goes on, it’s all there, in their DNA, and just seeps out into our lives.
Right now I’m off to bleach skid marks out of pants.