In the course of raising boys, gross things occasionally happen. I have scraped dog poo from shoes, wiped vomit off pretty much everything, wiped bums, and found revolting skeletal "treasures" of frogs and such in the closets.
These are rites of passage, and undoubtedly have disgusted moms and dads everywhere.
Recently, grossness has manifested itself in a consistent form: discarded gum. Chewed gum has turned up in my bed, smooshed into clothing, stuck onto the couch, wadded in hair, stuck to the dog--everywhere.
Well, almost everywhere.
Last night, I found gum where no human should ever find ANYTHING unexpected.
S comes to me last night with, "There's something wrong with my penis."
Indeed, young man, there is: it is fully caked with gooey, thick gum. There is gum in every fold of his little nut sac. There is gum adhering his penis to his leg. There is gum adhering his nuts to his pants. There is gum adhering his penis to his nuts. There is gum all up in his junk.
Gum. Chewed gum. ALL OVER HIS JUNK.
Casually: "how did this happen?"
S: "I had gum in my mouth. Then it dropped in the hot bath. But I didn't get it out. I must have sat on it."
Nonchalantly: "But of course."
How does one remove gum? Ice cubes are an oft-described option. Unsurprisingly, that was an unpopular suggestion. So, I went the route of baby oil and a rough wash cloth. Maybe making gum removal painful might be a deterrent to future gum/nut activity
S lays down in the bathroom, nude. Gummed junk all splayed out. Laughing softly, yet maniacally. "Heh hehehehehheheheheheheheh."
I go to work. Nobody wants to see her child's junk up close, covered in goo and the occasional pajama fuzz that's stuck to it all.
"I bet this doesn't happen every day," offers S.
Indeed.
"You are the royal nut scrubber," ordains S.
Indeed.
Peel. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Oil. Repeat.
S decides this moment--this surreal, bizarre moment, this singularity in space and time is the appropriate opportunity to pass gas.
Three inches from my face, tops.
That's it. I leave whatever residue is on those bad boys as a sticky testament and (hopefully) nut pinchy reminder of this incident.
Now I need a bath. For my eyeballs. And my memory.
