Penguins And Hygiene And Stupid Things Husband Say

We have tried to teach and encourage good hygiene in our house. On the most part, I think it has gone fairly well. For some things. Kinda.

Well…maybe notsomuch.

*Brush your teeth twice a day. Well…we do have to remind them. Still. Even at their ages. And I can always tell when they haven’t because, for some reason, their teeth turn a funky orange color.

*Shower and wash your hair, at least every other day. We do have to fight with them about this. Well…not all of them. Just the smelly, gross boys. And good god do these kids smell. What ever happened to the sweet smell of little kids? Oh yeah…they grow up. And they don’t smell so sweet anymore.

*Wash your hands before meals. Yeah…another fight. They wash their palms but not the tops of their hands. *shakes head* Oh, I’m such a failure as a parent.

*Flush the toilet after you poop. Because when they don’t, the dog ends up eating it out of the toilet and it causes me to dry heave. And the house stinks. And…how hard is it to flush a freaking toilet. Just push down on that little lever there, on the back of the toilet. See…was that so hard?

You know…the typical stuff you try to teach your kids so that when they are released into the wild…they’ll be able to survive.

Or at least, not be the kid that other parents talk about and have their kids avoid…at all cost.

One of the survival rules we are having a hard time getting the little guy to remember to do is…wash your hands after going to the bathroom. He, in particular…MUST…wash his hands. Especially the way he wipes. Sometimes I’m not sure he really uses toilet paper or if he just decides to save trees and use his hands.

The other day, after a particularly long grunting session on the toilet. We heard the rustling of toilet paper (so I KNOW he used it this time!). And we heard the flush of the toilet.

Then…

We heard the pitter patter of little feet that still had pants around the ankles. You know that noise. The kind that makes you think that there is a penguin loose in the house…

But, what we didn’t hear was the water running. Which led us to believe two things…

A…hands were not washed.
B…his poop infested hands were coming perilously close to TOUCHING things in the house. And THAT is nasty gross.

So…my husband decided to try a new tactic. I like to call it the “scare the poor kid to death” form of following the simple rule of proper hygiene.

It went a little something like this…

Hubby: Hey. Did you wash your hands?
Son: No.
Hubby: Did you poop?
Son: Yes.
Hubby: Did you wipe your tushie?
Son: Yep. All by myself. (said very proudly…chest puffed out…sheepish grin)
Hubby: Well then, you’d better go and wash your hands. All by yourself. Because if you don’t wash your hands after pooping…you could die.

I know…right?!

Hubby: And don’t touch anything until you wash your poopy hands because everyone else will die from you.

Seriously though.

So my poor, scared shitless son…looks at me. Horrified. His blue eye huge. His brown eye…huge-er. And he says…

Well what are you waiting for Mommy? Hurry up and wash my hands. Before I die.

And he penguin waddled back into the bathroom. And waited in front of the sink…not touching ANYTHING. Looking at me expectantly…

What did I do, you wonder?

I washed his hands…and mine…with antibacterial soap.

Then, I scrubbed down the doorknob and the faucet and the toilet seat and the floor…with Clorox antibacterial wipes…which, by the way…I LOVE. And I worship. And I adore. And buy and go through…waaaaaaayyy too many…along with Swiffer dry wipes…but, I digress…this is about my son and his poopy hands and the thought of dying if he doesn’t wash his hands…not about me and my obsessions.

Anyway…

That incident happened a couple of days ago. And yes, he’s COMPLETELY gotten over the fear of dying if he doesn’t wash his hands after pooping.

Because I’m about to hunt down the penguin and fumigate.

And then, I’m buying a crate.

Stamping it to say Antarctica Or Bust.

And shipping him off to live with real penguins. In the wild. Where he just may belong.

And while I’m at it…

I think I’ll stuff the smelly boys in there, too.

And my husband.

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