A few times a day, there is a flash. It runs through the kitchen at Mach speed. It makes a beeline for the bathroom. And about 30 seconds later, it exits the house about as fast as it came in.
The flash is a boy. Who waited. And now, he has to pee so bad he can barely make it the 20 feet that is between him and the toilet before he explodes. And then he does.
And the explosion crystallizes, and before long, those nasty golden crystals make the bathroom smell like a rest stop in Quartzite. If you don’t know what Quartzite smells like, go into a bathroom that is used by young boys. Then you’ll know.
Graphic, but so true it hurts. And today I was done cleaning it. And smelling it. So they got to go to school on Sunday.
Because, there’s this crack. It’s more like a crevice, really. And it’s between the lid and the seat on the toilet. It’s a gateway to nastiness, where icky bits fester and create a memoriam of the moment that little boys almost peed their pants.
“But I don’t miss the bowl,” is what I heard, as I showed them how to use a Lysol wipe and get in the cracks.
Like, in there. To lift the crust. To wipe the evidence. To put a little muscle into it.
And my oldest snuck in and captured the life moment, so I could hear what I sound like saying, “It creates this whole Circle K, truck stop situation.”
That’ll never get old. For me anyway.
Maybe I’m mean. Maybe I’m just keeping it real. Maybe I’m managing my sanity and throwing my nasal receptors a well-earned bone. Maybe I’m helping future wives. If the boys don’t like it, they can aim better.
None of it really matters. Because the bathroom smells like lemons, now. Which means I’m winning.