Every now and then, I look at my daughters and think, “Goddamn, how amazing.  We jammed two chemicals together, and there’s an actual person here now”.  You know, like noses that are attached somewhere along the lines to lungs that make them breathe and shit.  People yap about the “miracle of life”; I don’t care what you call it, but it is pretty stinking cool.

There is, however, one part of human anatomy that is vastly different in kids than in adults.  I’m uncertain as to when, in evolution, this phenomenon reared it’s ugly as hell little genome head – or if, in fact, children from the beginning of time were in possession of it.  Perhaps the first grimy little bastards crawled from the primordial soup with this particular anomaly, and parents since time immemorial have been dealing with it.  In any case, they all have it, and it’s absolutely astonishing.

Yes, friends, something somewhere along the lines created an inextricable link between the bowels of the children of Earth and the triumphant return home from the food store.  I say again – EVERY FREAKING TIME THE GROCERIES NEED TO BE PUT AWAY, THEY HAVE TO TAKE A CRAP.  Every.  Time.  Without fail.  “You JUST went at the store!!”  “OOOOOOOOHHHHH, I HAVE THE CRAMPS I CAN’T HOLD IT I HAAAAAAAAAAVVE TO GO NOWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!”  It’s absolutely uncanny.

Lest I neglect what might be an important irregularity in my child’s digestive tract, I inquired with the pediatrician when my first born was about six.  Explaining to him that perhaps there was psychological trauma associated with the cabinets in which the food was to be stowed, I was near tears at the thought of having to move house due to an unseen presence that was haunting my kid and causing her to have the sudden urge to shit.  I was assured with a gentle laugh that it was, in fact, something with which every child he had ever seen in his practice was afflicted.  “What can I do about it, doc?!” I asked.  With a knowing glance and a rueful smile, he leaned in and replied, “Good fuckin’ luck”.

Armed with the knowledge that there was no physical malady present, I attempted to thwart the next episode.  Ah, again, we’re screwed.  How possibly can you deny your child access to the bathroom?  As early as possible, we potty train them, using sticker charts and peanut butter cups and gold stars.  We encourage them to use the bathroom, we praise them when they do, and, once mastered, we urge them to keep the door closed for privacy.  Suddenly, we’re questioning their need to evacuate their little bowels?  Who are we to question the inner workings of a tiny GI tract that is most likely filled with the shattered remains of Capri Sun, hot dogs, and a reasonably sized ball of Big League Chew that was inadvertently swallowed?  No one, that’s who.  And, here’s the kicker – THEY KNOW THAT.  It’s the perfect crime.

The most astonishing part of all?  In the exact instant the very last morsel is safely tucked away in the kitchen, if you’re quiet, you’ll hear a toilet flush.  Miracle of life, indeed.

“Hi Mama, did you see me run over here?  HOLY BALLS I STINK!!”
We’re nothing if not self-aware in our family, of both the positives and negatives.  We embrace both, because we’re human.  But goddamn if reeking like a combination of that neglected half bag of potatoes on the pantry floor and a high school locker room is something of which to be proud.  The look of pure delight on her face mystified me.
Here I am, minding my business on a beautiful Spring evening, waiting outside school for my 11-year-old to finish volleyball practice.  Ever the optimist, I look forward to greeting my second-born and allowing her to regale me with tales of her prowess on the court.  Oh, but nature, you fickle bitch.  You can take my sweet, cherub-faced pre-teen and, in the span of a scant 90 minutes, turn her into a beast of which the likes should be banished to the brimstone and sulfurous pits.

Speaking of pits, the initial odor which wafted into my truck was a lovely mélange of pits, parts, and general rankness.  As my jaw drops in horror, the look of glee is only increased on her face.  She smells like a hobo and a through-hiker just had filthy sex in a pile of raw sewage, and she’s loving it.  All windows are open, and I’m driving as quickly as I can.  This strategy seems to be full of false logic, though, as it’s creating a wind tunnel effect – I take a leaf from the dog’s book, and hang my head out the window.  The only thing more cloying than the smell is the sound of her laughter, filling my head and overwhelming my two favorite and most sensitive senses.

“Okay, I’m sorry, but I’m sticking to the seat and you’re going to have to peel me off like those window clings that get condensation on them, probably have to disinfect the leather HAHAHAHAHAHAH HAH HAAAAA HAHAHAAAAAAAA.”  Karma is cashing in her chips tonight, as every light turned red and took our four minute ride home and turned it into hell.  In the instant I finished dry-heaving and thought the worst had passed, she leans down and unlaces her sneakers.  Panicking now, and screaming in that “this could be the end” tone reserved only for moments like this, I blurt “YOU KEEP THOSE GODDAMN SHOES ON I SWEAR I WIL-“…and off they come.  She’s laughing so hard she’s crying, and apparently my horror made it all the funnier.  “THIS IS UNREAL I SMELL LIKE SWEAT AND PUBERTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I HAVE NEVER SMELLED THIS BAD!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

No, kid, you haven’t.  And as a matter of fact, you’re stripping the instant we walk in the house and those clothes are going directly into the washer – you’re not even getting them as far as the bathroom.  In fact, you’re lucky I’m not fucking burning them.  As I pour soap into the washer and set it to run, I catch a glimpse of one of my favorite photos of her as a baby on the fridgidaire.  You know, babies.  The ones that smell like soap and powder and milk and softness and love and magic.  How the fuck an 11-year-old girl can smell that bad is something I lack the capacity to fathom.  It happens, though, and I’m assuming it’s an actual thing.  Here’s your first lesson, gentle reader – your kids are going to stink.  Badly.  They’re going to be proud of it, too, and just like every other accomplishment, you’re going to have to give them an attaboy.  After they shower.

 

 

 

Have some kids, they said.  It’ll be fun, they said.  After marrying my husband and realizing I needed something to keep me from drinking so much, I acquiesced and proceeded to get knocked up twice in less than three years.  Several versions of the ubiquitous “What to Expect…” books were gifted to me by older and presumably wiser matriarchs; I devoured them as though they were the secret to all life.  I learned about mucus plugs, seedy poops that come from babies stuffed full like little ticks with breast milk, and even the batshit-crazy things overprotective dads might do.  However, as toddlerhood ended for both of my daughters, I quickly found that there was clearly a statute of limitations on the information those books presented.  As they grew, my need for ideas on what the fuck to expect next became an obsession.  Now at 11 and 14, my beautiful, intelligent, articulate daughters are an absolute mystery, and I’ve run across some sincerely crazy shit.  In the spirit of helping my fellow human kind, here are my observations on the Anti-Expectations.  Good luck.