We’re into naked at my house. By “we”, I mean Sadie and by “into” I mean she likes to do everything in her birthday suit. Tolerance, I have it, but I draw the line at eating meals naked. It’s too Raising Arizona for me, which may not make sense to you, but OMG, my kid has to wear clothes to the table. Period. The end.
Well, sometimes I get a little lazy at breakfast. On the mornings I go to work, I punt, thinking “let the nanny deal with it; that’s why we pay her.” On the mornings that I am home, I punt, thinking “let’s not ruin a happy morning with a power struggle.” (Yes, the parenting manual is coming out soon, just working on the final proofs.)
But it only took one incident to shock and disgust the lazy right out of me.
As I remember it, Sadie was sitting on a stool au natural as I was making breakfast. I know that none of YOU are the judgmental types (except maybe you, YOU’RE always judging me), so I can tell you that Sadie was drinking milk and eating pretzels and avocado.
Because I was busy like a boss making shit happen in my kitchen, I was not paying that much attention to what my children were actually doing.
“Mommy?” Sadie asked, innocently enough.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?” I said, still not suspicious.
“I just put some pretzels on the stool and then I sat on them. I crunched them into little pieces.”
Powers of speech failed me, because I could see her chewing. Pretzels.
“Now, I am eating them.”
“Mommy, want one?”
I guess I should be glad she didn’t try to make guacamole with her butt and then dip her pretzels into it. (Me– always with the bright side.)
Thanks to the butt crunched pretzels we have a new and necessary iron clad rule around here. No clothes, no food. I’ve been heard to say “If I can see your genitals, you can’t have a snack.” Other chesnuts that have passed my lips, include, “Get your hands off your penis if you want a popsicle,” and “Let’s not put couscous in our vagina, m’kay?”
I knew these days were coming– days when my kids would gross me out in ways far exceeding their full newborn diapers. I was hoping it would be puberty scenarios that would shock my conscience. But my three-year old’s butt crunched pretzels have ushered in not only new house rules, but a new era in our house, one that assures me I will be grossed out time and again. Also? I predict we’ll dispel the myth that boys are “grosser” than girls. If I am raising her right, my daughter will be as gross as any boy her age.
To that I say, Bring it! (Just wear some pants, please.)