You don't choose your family (or Boys are gross and smelly)

I have mentioned, on a previous occasion, how pregnancy, childbirth and the inevitable subsequent requirement to deal with children on a daily basis has screwed with my gag reflex. And weakened my stomach.

And my resolve some days.

Anyhoo, I was cursed blessed with boys. Not all bad, as I grew up with two younger brothers and spent a lot of time with Dad and bascially got used to being around boys. I’m a “Boy Mum” and not really sure which way girls go up. Also, Barbie Pink made me vomit before I had kids, so having an extra vagina in the house would make things potentially worse.

I don’t flinch when they climb onto the garage roof, then slide down the other side onto the cubby. I’m getting used to crawly and grubby things being highly attractive. Complacent is probably a better word than “used to”.

I’m aslo becoming blase about the “experiments” that are regular activities in our house.

The school has a science fair coming up and Godzilla determined – and is now obsessed with – to create a “rubber egg”. This pretty much requires you soak an egg in vinegar for something like two weeks. Whatever.

Except that things sitting in liquids in our house for extended periods of time usually don’t actually last “extended periods” before having their hopes dashed on the kitchen floor and splattered to all corners of the house. Including the fridge, coffee table and, inexplicably, the hall stand which resides at compeltely the other end, up a long hall and three steps.

(I still cannot work out how that is happening)

So, he got a glass – very clever – and an egg. He placed the egg in the glass. Then filled it with vinegar. All off to a good start.

Two days later, I wander in and ask “why is the egg all black?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me waving his hands around. His very yellow hands.

“Why are your hands all yellow?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, looking somewhat guilty.

I give him The Look (one of several in my repertoir that implies “stop bullshitting me, I’m not a compelte fuckwit, you know”

“Monkey Boy told me to put food colouring in it. So we did!’

The Look words every time, I think to myself as I polish my fingernails on my shirt front.

We don’t have black colouring. It is eventually dragged out of him that they used every colour I had. They even put the lid back on the container where they live properly, and put the box back in the cupboard. In the correct spot.

Cheeky fuckers knew they were’nt to do this.

So for the last ten days or so, I have had a black egg, in vinegar, in a glass, being moved around my kitchen. It is being moved as it is constantly in the way. And making me feel a little ill. Black chook eggs are just .. wrong. My brain can’t comprehend it.

It made it to the top of the microwave, which sits just below my eye height. Which means I can clearly see everying (why do we have so much crap?!) sitting there.

The experiment now being over 30 seconds old, it has been forgotten. Neglected, even. The vinegar has been soaked into the egg and is no longer covering it.

It still makes me feel nauseous every time I look at it.

I look more closely. I don’t know why. This is a stupid thing to do.

It has … white spots on it. So I look more closely.

Stupid stupid stupid

“GODZILLA! Come here!” I demurely call for him.

“What?”

“Your egg. It looks like it is growing mold! It is revolting. You need to keep the vinegar covering it all the time. It’s buggered now. Bin it,” I command.

(Also, I have no idea whether it is actually some kind of penicillic growth and/or whether it may be redeemed by adding more vinegar. I don’t care. It’s freaking me out and I don’t like it.)

“OK,” he says.

Then he does the unthinkable. Or, more technically, something I really don’t want to have to think about, much less have to witness him doing it and having it burnt into my brain forever.

He reaches into the glass and touches the egg!

He only managed to touch it before I reacted with a primative screach and “DON’TYOUTOUCHTHAT!”

I was awarded with a confused look (and some eye rolling courtesy of Monkey Boy) before he launched into “How come?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

“Just … just … tip it in the bin,” I managed to get out, retching between each word. Or, more specifically, retching between each letter of each word.

“Ok,” he says.

And tips it in the bin, behind me, but I can hear all its grossness and its making me sick. I can’t really hear anything. I’m trying not to vomit. But its the thought of the noises it might be making that are adding to my feeling of ickiness.

The children spent the next couple of minutes taunting me about my weak stomach before heading off to be clone droids and shoot each other with guns made entirely from textas.

Am planning to write to school about their science fair. My stomach is not coping with the thought …

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