Thursday, October 11, 2012

That's What Boys Are Made Of.

The amount of joy that rushed through my veins the moment the doctor announced "It's a boy" is indescribable. It was fourteen years ago that I heard those blessed words. As I swaddled my little fella, nursed him and gazed into his chocolate brown eyes I pictured a future together of slugs and snails and puppy dog tails.

Because that's what little boys are made of.

Or not.

I could have used a little heads up over here.

Why didn't anyone warn me about all the non-nursery rhyme and semidisgusting things about boys? Have you smelled one lately? Their odor can be offensive and I fear that smell is embedded in my son's room. It reminds me of what I imagine musty-meets-B.O. smells like and despite an open window, a running fan or constant spray of room deodorizer, the smell is never really eliminated.

This is very disconcerting to me because A. I'm a girl and I not only enjoy fragrance, I work very hard to smell good myself. And B. this is my house. Odors yield to me, not the other way around. Our home is like a living commercial for every fragrant device invented. This is a big deal considering all the dinners I've burnt, an overflowing laundry room and a dog. The fact that I cannot eliminate boy-smell is not ok with me.

Which makes me wonder, are these smells permanent or will they travel with him when he moves out? Like the odor from a pet accident; will I have to replace the carpet and wallpaper and if so, shouldn't that come out of his pocket? His odor, his decorating bill?

And why can't he smell himself? Seriously! If everyone in the room catches a whiff of him before he even enters how is it he doesn't notice his own offense? Is something wrong with nasal cavity?
Or maybe he can't smell it under that layer of ten-dollar body spray he wears.

Thank goodness he's a typical boy in that he is completely grossed out by me. You know, since I'm a girl and all. Ever since he turned eight I haven't gotten an unsolicited hug or public display of affection. Instead, these days when I want a little tenderness I make sure he's fresh from the shower. But even that was a little iffy for a while. Apparently the use of soap isn't as obvious as you would think. We had many lectures on how getting wet in the shower wasn't the same as getting clean.

Listen, I love my son. I'd have to in order to endure football games in the rain and long hot weekends of tournaments in overcrowded gyms. I do all that for him because at least he'll know that I am his biggest cheerleader. I am sure someday even that job will be replaced by some ponytail wearing, pom-pom girl on the sidelines. When that day comes, which I am sure will happen only after he gets serious about his personal hygiene, she'll have all the sweet smelling days and I'll be left in the dust of my foul odored memories.

I won't complain though because I will have loved him first. I will also have loved him best. Despite the smelly socks and endless loads of filthy uniforms I love that big lug. Someday he'll be gone and all that will be left is his lingering odor.

On that day I'll ask my husband if he wants to replace the carpet in that room with a navy or grey plush. Why? Because I'm the mom and I said so! That's why!

(This article appears as a part of my weekly Practical Parenting series for The Monmouth Daily Review Atlas) - Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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