BG in 3-D.
It still comes as a shock to me when I meet (an increasing number of) men in their twenties and thirties who have never, ever so much as touched a diaper—dirty or not. As a member of a big family, and a girl whose first job was babysitting, I’d changed countless diapers before I could even legally drive.
I know the old test-the-milk-temperature-on-your-wrist deal. I see a head-bump coming from a mile away and put my hand beneath the corners of tables to avoid the inevitable collision. I love reading bedtime stories and the smell of Johnson’s baby shampoo.
I may know lots of things about kids, but no one ever has—or ever will—classify me as a “kid person.” No one’s ever going to be all, “that girl’s a natural with those littluns.”
BG, on the other hand, is a child magnet. (I suspect part of his mass appeal is the beard; kids are simultaneously terrified and mesmerized by it.)
People are always oohing and ahhing over how greeeaaaaaat he his with children. (Note to said people: Stop doing that. I get all jealous that no one will ever say that about me, and then he gets all sad because “child” is exactly the job description for what he wants to be when he grows up, and he’s aware that having one of his own will prevent his dream of being Peter Pan forever from coming true.)
But while he delights in playing all manner of games and making mindless chatter (he once scolded me for not being “animated enough” while conversing with my 2-year-old niece), he is positively horrified by bodily fluids and rancid smells. He once dry heaved for a full 5 minutes upon opening a bag of past-its-expiration cauliflower, and regularly has anxiety dreams about crapping the bed after prolonged time spent with poopy-diapered youngsters. (Both much to my entertainment. And both true.)
Girls Team! (Note general oblivion of the supervising party.)
Meanwhile, I have a stomach of steel. (If you don’t count the lactose intolerance and soy allergy, that is. But of course you would.)
I consume groceries past their sell-by dates in the name of not being wasteful. While eating crabs, I find the mysterious “mustard” to be positively delicious.
I am what they call a “picker.” I relish the opportunity to pluck out splinters, blackheads, and the occasional stray hair—generally any task that requires tweezers. Growing up, I was the one to help extract a rare plantar wart from the bottom of my sister’s foot. I loved dissecting frogs and owl pellets.
In short, I am disgusting.
However, I swore on my life I had played my last game of Mancala when I retired from my summer camp counselor days. So when BG decided to take his niece and nephew to their first ever movie in theaters, he might’ve been a little surprised when I eagerly jumped at the opportunity. (Little did he know, to me, they were decoys: This was really just the only way I could see The Lion King 3-D without looking like a total weirdo.)
The 2:2 adult-to-kid ratio was a safe one—we figured that’d be the easiest way not to lose one beneath a food court table… and BG admitted he was approximately 82% confident about the bathroom mechanics of a 4-year-old boy, so we split the difference: I was responsible for the girl, he for the boy.
Girls team FTW.
She’s one of those rare girls who is fearless and likes getting dirty… and apparently suffers some kind of tough-chick nerve damage where she can’t feel the same pain that other little kids can, so she’s quick to get over things like stubbed toes and faceplants. Not only that, but she never fidgeted and sang along to “I just can’t wait to be kiiiiiiiiiiiing” with yours truly.
The boys team, however, fell victim to a serious lack of attention span. BG disappointingly spent most of the movie in the “bafroom” or standing beside the arcade games in the movie theater lobby.
Hakuna matata, my friend. Hakuna matata.
