I have to move out of my house. Well, maybe I just need to throw out most of my furniture. And renovate my bathroom. And the basement. So, yeah, I should just move.
Of course, the problem with moving or throwing out all my shit is that in the end, I can’t actually get rid of the problem. And the problem is: stinky boys. Three of them, to be exact.
But wait, single mommy, you only have twins! You don’t have THREE boys.
See this one here looking at me as if to say, “Is there some problem with me lying here on the counter?” Yes, he is my third stinky boy. The stinkiest of them all, as a matter of fact, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
No one prepared me for how dirty and smelly my boys could get at such a young age. I was prepared for the general smelliness of a teenager, but an elementary school kid? I had no idea.
It doesn’t help that both of my sons have somewhat of an aversion to socks. The results are quite odiferous, as you can imagine. And then when they do wear socks, I find them strewn about the house and stuffed into furniture like surprise potpourri.
Then there are the farts. Now, I had a brother. I understand boys and farts. And from what I’ve heard, girls and women fart too. But my sons seem to just let ’em rip at any and seemingly all times! One of my sons is rather gassy, but his farts are more sound than substance. The other, boy, watch out! He lets out the “silent, but deadly” ones and we all end up in tears.
I also had no idea how bad the bathroom situation would be. No matter how often I scrub or clean, or how many little deodorizers or candles I put in there, it still smells of little boys. Specifically, little boy pee. Not that little boy pee smells any different than regular pee, it just makes me feel better to know it is from a little boy. Sort of. Although, with each passing year, the “little” part is going to cease to be true and I have a feeling the smell ain’t going to get any better. I just can’t for the life of me understand why it is so hard to get it in the bowl. It’s a big target. And they have a pointer for Pete’s sake!
Anyway, all of this pungency has just worn me down. So imagine my horror when the last boy turned on me.
I know. It is hard to imagine such a sweet looking kitty peeing all over my furniture, but he has. It started in one room, on one corner of a couch. Then another spot on the couch. Then a chair in another room. Then another chair. I’ve scrubbed. I’ve sprayed. I got an alarm for the couch so he couldn’t jump on it. I paid hundreds of dollars to Stanley Steemer. I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to the vet to make sure he isn’t ill. Turns out, he’s just a big, fat jerk.
The last straw came yesterday. After coming home from work and picking up the boys, I was stomping around the kitchen because I discovered that homework had not been done properly once again. Every few minutes, I would stop and pause and sniff and say, “Do you SMELL that?” The boys just shrugged. I eyed the cat suspiciously as I went about my business. “Ugh! Where is that coming from?!” I checked the garbage, I looked in corners for a wayward turd or rotting food (because my son has been known to leave food in some peculiar places), but nothing turned up.
So, as is our routine, we sat down on the couch to read. Golden, the stinkpot, had already climbed up onto the ruined chair next to us to listen. I opened the book and read a sentence before losing it.
“WHAT IS THAT SMELL?” I began moving the furniture and looking under things. I ran my hands across the slipcover on the couch.
“ARRGGGHHHHH!!!!” Sure enough, the cat peed on the last piece of unsoiled furniture. I ripped the slip cover off and found that it had seeped through to the leather underneath which was part of what was making the smell all the worse.
The boys sort of huddled near the cat; kind of laughing at my temper tantrum, kind of glad it wasn’t them, kind of protecting the cat from getting thrown out the window. I covered my face with my hands and started taking deep breaths. I stood there for a long time. G asked when I might be ready to talk again. I told him probably never.