Metrosexuals in the House

Deal is currently in the bathroom with Bird. They have become miniature metrosexuals, favoring a shower everyday. We have four body sprayers in the master bath shower, and the shower is plenty big for 3-4 people to shower off chlorine and lake muck. The boys love squirting my various bottles of shampoo, exfoliator, body wash, gel, sugar scrub, and other such things that smell yummy and should really be left for the mother, the only woman, in the house to indulge in. Why, oh why, will they not use the California Baby stuff or Burt's Bees concotions I spent a fortune on?

They have always loved to watch Mac Daddy shave. Now they each stand on either side of him like obedient dogs awaiting a pat behind the ear and patiently wait for their turn to shave. This involves a quarter size dollop of shaving cream and a cotton ball to rub it off. They boys stand side by side cautiously rubbing that cotton ball as if it would really cut a vein. Then they run to me, cheeks pointing upward, begging me to feel how smooth they are. I suppose this display of manliness compensates for the times I let them choose one toe on each foot to paint red, magenta, coral, or whatever hue is in for the season. They are sporting a deep brick red on their big toes at the moment. I don't anticipate any bullies taking out my kid at kindergarten or preschool recess, but I do realize this practice will have to stop soon.

And Bird. Oh Bird. He stands in front of the mirror with his preferred purple (It MUST be the purple one, no, not the blue, I said NOT THE BLUE ONE!, and definitely not the pink one, no, I won't use pink, the PURPLE one is the ONLY one that will work, eeeeeggaaadddsss!!!). Apparently all combs are not created equally.

Deal uses his shower time to try to juggle his testicles. Lord knows what creeps will find me now that I've written "testicles" here. Anyway, Deal has always had a wandering hand. I'm afraid of what he'll be doing once he's in seventh grade hiding out in his room for an entire afternoon. So far he goes up to his room and says he wants to play all alone, but I know he's up there in the rocking chair sucking the hell out of his thumb. I bust him every time. "Ball" wasn't his first word for nothin'.

So this morning, as I write this, the boys are in the shower. Mac Daddy is standing by with the Spiderman and Thomas hooded towels. Licensed character shit is fine for the things the public does not see (towels, underwear, sheets even). But I don't want my kids to be sporting licensing mania to the Nth degree. No Spiderman backpack, but I did cave for the Batman lunchbox. And so I digress.

This morning Deal is fondling the hell out of his little balls. It must be a combination of fascination, curiosity, and well, old fashioned, it-just-feels-good. After squeezing those suckers around for a bit, he looked up with those gloriously long eyelashes beaded with water and asked, "If I squeeze my tenders too hard will they pop out?"

Our eyeballs almost popped out from laughing.

Floored

When my boys grow up and lounge in a therapist's leather chaise one day, they might be saying, "My mother was a neat freak. The queen of neatniks everywhere. All those anal rules about folding towels and fitted sheets drove our dad to the edge of madness, but he stayed because Mom was the trophy wife he married on the first try." OK, so maybe I embellished that trophy wife part a teensy bit. We all know every psychosis known to man is blamed on his mother anyway, so this small deal I make about cleanliness will be the least of their worries. My boys are perhaps the only children on the planet who ask permission before dumping out a crate (a labeled crate, mind you) of toys. Overheard just this morning as I was cleaning up after breakfast (because I never, ever leave crumbs on the table or dishes in the sink):

Deal to Bird: "Can I dump out the cars?"
Bird: "Yes, but only if you clean up the balls first."

Music to my ears! Some might say I am squashing their creativity, but there was a day last week that I tolerated the Legos, Lincoln Logs, Kapla blocks, AND random assortment of weathered blocks and spools from Mac Daddy's childhood strewn on the floor at the same time. At the same time. Did you catch that? At the same time. I've even submitted to MIXING Playdoh colors. Deal loves the kaleidescope of colors he can create, but Bird cringes like I do at the concoction. If I squint, the mixed Playdoh looks a bit like a Pucci print so I can appreciate it if I kick in my fashion sensibilities. And admittedly, there is some crazy satisfaction in mashing together the purple and green, but I've learned firsthand that too much mushing makes the whole blob puce.

Teaching my boys about cleanliness and the the simple act of putting toys, shoes, coats, and backpacks away is part of my job. It is my responsibility to teach them how to be good citzens, stewards of our planet, and gentlemen. Some woman will thank me one day. It is common for Bird to exclaim out of the blue, "I love it when our house is clean!" He won't even ride in a friend's car because he thinks it's too dirty. And believe, he's said so aloud...to her. I'll be covering the chapter on Tact and Decorum at a later date.

Hopefully a woman like the one I saw in the locker room at the gym this morning won't be lurking around my boys. After a long workout on the ellipitcal thingee I went to take a shower, wearing my flip flops, natch. As I walked into the shower I noticed a pile of stuff on the shower floor next to me. Here's an inventory of what I saw ON THE SHOWER FLOOR, with no cover, container, or makeshift protection from the gazillion bacteria and viruses lurking on that one 6 x 6 inch square of tile: a disposable razor, a bar of soap, one of those netted puffy scrubbers, a tube of Crest that someone squeezed in the middle (a deal breaker for me), and get this, a TOOTHBRUSH! Did I mention is was ON THE SHOWER FLOOR?

The same floor littered with pubic hair before it swirls down the drain. The same floor that tinea pedis grows rampantly on. The same floor that people pee on to get a two-fer in the shower in the drought-stricken ages we are living in. Trust me, I know this happens. If nothing else, I do know that Deal once peed in the shower by accident after we were rinsing off after a swim.

I'm curious what was going through that woman's mind as she set her toothbrush on the shower floor. Can you imagine? I heard that staph germs can spew 25 feet after you flush the toilet so you shouldn't keep toothbrushes exposed anywhere near the toilet. I'm pretty sure the same folks would tell us that putting your TOOTHBRUSH on the SHOWER FLOOR is even more DISGUSTING. For the record, all the toothbrushes in our house are well protected from staph germs. Bird goes so far as covering his with a Spiderman travel top just because he's super clean, or some might say fussy, like I am. For starters, those pesky staph germs are kept at bay if you just shut the toilet seat before flushing. Now some woman will really thank me for that one day.