Occasionally I abhor parenting.
I recollect my own childhood as quite mellow. With three girls there were the intermittent hair-pulling and possession-hoarding incidents, but otherwise we were very easy on my parents. Well, at least I was.
Boys are just . . . . well, I can't say different so I'll say 'icky'.
They seem to view the body and the things that come out of it with artist attention.
This is not pleasant for a woman who even thinks her own husband is icky on occurrence.
I have caught those little boys popping bubbles in the toilet and drawing on the bathroom walls. I will not elaborate on either.
Boy One is perfectly smart with academics, sports, art. But because of his autism he's completely ignorant of social concepts.
Sitting with his class at library yesterday he had his hands in his pants (we can't seem to break him of that) and then proceeded to unzip.
His aid, the librarian and his teacher were all flummoxed with how to handle this and informed me of the incident in cryptic tones after school let out. The teacher is just hoping that the two little girls sitting with him don't tell their parents, who will then call the school and create a huge fuss.
Great. Just great.
How do I handle this?
I tried to calmly (but with just the right hint of disapproving emotion) talk with him about this, but he seemed to have completely forgotten the entire episode and couldn't follow the simple words I was saying.
I turned the whole thing over to Husband when he came home and I'm praying that makes the difference.
Little boys are icky. What's that poem about snakes and snails and puppy dog's tails? It seems fairly accurate.
* * * *
On another note, every home we've lived in has had an oven that just can't seem to keep up with the demands I've placed on it. They all sputter their dislike and overheat in varying grades, sometimes demanding to be replaced.
This oven is no different.
I had assumed that by leaving the oven alone for a few days it would decide to cooperate and we'd forget the ugliness ever happened. After all, I don't hold a grudge. Why should it?
But it did. Horrible, pathetic, cursed oven.
I put the muffin batter in at *375 and set the timer for only ten minutes (eight minutes before it was 'due'). Sadly, the oven continued to heat until the timer went off ten minutes later and I entered the kitchen to see smoke wafting from below the burners and opened the oven to find the temperature at a balmy *515 and the muffins scorched into briquettes.
As I growled with vexation, Helpful Husband (I put this in the nicest possible terms) advised with flippant nonchalance "Just set the timer for fewer minutes."
Big Boys are icky, too.