Two year olds are by nature dirty, filthy creatures. It's not hereditary, it's instinct, to look and smell like their surroundings. It might be different deep within the urban womb, but I'm sure with enough creativity, it's managed quite successfully. You can buy them copious amounts of toys, action figures, video games, but what really gets them amped would be the thought of getting messy. And yes, I would say that that goes back to instinct.
While painting today, Julian played quietly for thirsty seconds and then played the 'I'm hungry and tired and needs to be held' card, but when it comes to meeting any of those specific needs, he likes to pull the 'I' m not going to eat, not going to sleep, don't touch me look at me or I will shoot you in the face' card. Therein lies the conundrum. So there I am, mid stroke with a paintbrush of a dangerously volatile red, when tantrum makes it's call and I'm attempting to maneuver away from the open gallon of paint with the seizing beastie and a paintbrush saturated in said color. A violent kick was all it took. WHACK! Up goes the brush and onto my wincing face.
If I would have known that a smack to the face with blood red paint was the answer to life’s little problems, I would be selling it to you for $29.95 and making millions right now. But unfortunately the epiphany had only hit me seconds before.
A look of awe had come over his wrenched and tear streaked exterior. Glancing sideways at me, in revelation he tried to touch me, cautiously; Elliott’s first contact with E.T.. Touching the red now dripping from my face he lit into glee and proceeded to wipe it all over his own. This is truly bonding at it's sickest. Anyone that would have come into this scene would have thought I was giving rites of manhood in a satanic ritual, peering around for a squawking chickens body and a pentagram than getting the hell out. But it wasn't that, it was pure and simple, getting dirty just makes him happy. He played around me being a king and a pirate and a clown and a cat and a squirrel until I ran out of paint. There were a total of six touchups on the wall that needed to be done where Jules leaned on the wall during casual conversation with the dead cockroach we found under the couch.
Requiring a bit of peace and quiet, we adjourned to the garden. That sounds really nice. It's more like, he was driving me up the wall so I took it upon myself to chuck his little painted ass outside.
Julian has a room of toys. All different shapes and sizes, but none as endearing as the hanging fern on our porch. He hauls that poor plant around as if it were a floppy duck on a rope, and regards it with care. Sometimes it's his doggy, and others it's a basket of cookies, that he replenishes every three seconds. I thought it was so cute that he left a little trail of potting soil all over the yard, but it quickly became less cute when the trail led into the living room, dining room, looped around the kitchen and trailed out the back door.
Upon catching up with the boy and his basket of botanical cookies, I found him enjoying a nice little dip in the dog bowl. Due to it's small size, we took it upon himself to dip every extremity and appendage in the bowl one at a time. I found him at his grand finale, the coups de gras : his Mohawked head.
A better mother would have shrieked in horror and lamented his poor seersucker ensemble. Not this mawma. She said, 'golly Jules, you're sure going to be cold on the walk over to the school!'
Yes, it was time. That time that every mother or father enjoys, when they make the bi-daily hajj to the school to chat politely at everyone else. This is really a very competitive thing. Each smarmy parent sizes up the next. "Her ass is fatter than mine", "How the hell are her boobs that big?", "My god she looks trashy" and all of those other things that they are thinking miraculously transcends at it reaches the vocal chords to, "Helen, you are looking just wonderful!", "Have you been to the new Victoria Secret lately?", or "Oh my lord Denise, who does your hair? It's fabulous!"
Our house is less than a block from the school, but Jules usually requires me to carry him about twenty feet after a horrendous protest to avoid the stroller. Once I finally had him hoisted onto my shoulders, it finally hit me. The smell.
Dog shit has a distinct aroma. It hits you in the face, not leaving any bruises, but definitely a contorted, repugnant appearance. It's location, however can be very misleading. With Julian up on my shoulders I flip flopped my feet in awkward duck stance to inspect. That's funny, nothing. Then I noticed that my soaked son on my shoulders had a more squishy than average shoe. I held in my hand a dangerous grenade of funk.
Writhing away from the playfully kicking shoe and working Jules off of me, I was trying not to lose composure. So, with a swift spin, I managed to get the shitty shoe off of my persons. School will be out in two minutes. So I did what any creative mother would do and taught Julian to shuffle. And he loved shuffling and started to shuffle faster towards the school. "Yes! We are getting there!" I thought, but all too soon, as Jules had just shuffled right into a mud puddle. Not a fresh mud puddle with clean runoff, but a mud puddle three days old and made of the red dirt. Awesome. We were ten feet from the school yard.
As I walk to the social circles, my son announces our arrival, being as we were up wind from the herd, and parents begin to check their shoes, pull their kids onto the sidewalks and off of the grass, hold their breath, and look around for the offender. And then came Julian. Three different shades of paint, soaking wet and camouflaged by mud and shit.
I Haven't been approached by any mothers at the school. I'm not a popular chatty Cathy there. I don't know why. Maybe, it has to do with the dialect, or the geography, or maybe, just maybe the fact that I have the dirty child. I’m' sure that there are a few mothers that play, "Guess that smell on the new ladies kid." Running bet's to see who can get it the fastest.
And yet, this is but one day, of so many. When pirate means pirate of the dirt, or tattoos from head to toe with a sharpie. Whatever the case, it always keeps me busy, keeps me interesting, and hey, I can always wash 'em again, right