Monday, May 6, 2013

"B" is for "boy." "T" is for "tractor" and "turd."

"So how much an hour would it take to get you full time?" 
That was the question asked of me a few weeks ago. My bosses, they like me I think. 
So after a 40 hour work week (along with the three other part-time gigs I roll on), I had my first real weekend of the spring in the Methow. 
It was glorious. 
The weather was warm and invited us out to perambulate the fields and plot our next project: The chicken coop. 
The squids and I hacked and fought our way through long-neglected lilacs and opened up the new chicken coop room on the homestead house. The homestead was built over a hundred years ago and is about 20x20 with a door into every room. One will be the chicken coop room. It's a beautiful building and embodies all that is the wabi-sabi (old shit can still be pretty mentality). It housed three generations and about a dozen children grew up within its now crumbling womb. 
Mid-toil, I spotted my father sauntering over from his property. 
Over the next few hours there was pain, tears, whining, and grossness. 
I shall sum it up in a text. 
Yeah. Like that. The good son stole a key, lost it, was sent to his room, climbed out the window, took a shit in the front yard, then climbed back IN to his room. 
Then he crept out of his room to ask that if I was going to make him dinner would I please make pancakes so I could just slide them under the door. "Oh, and by the way, I went poop. But don't worry, I pooped outside." 
I can't really describe the contortion my face  made at that moment. Somewhere between total repugnance and rage, I'd imagine. I couldn't even speak. Fortunately for me, the twitch below my right eye started sending Morse code swears about the house. The sight of the twitch had my little public pooper walking slowly back to his room, maintaining fearful eye contact all the while. 
The worst of this whole debacle was that he was completely remorseless. Dear god, I thought, my child is one step away from being a sociopath. A million scenarios ripped through my imagination. Will I find that he's skinning adorable animals next? Or maybe he'll begin an underground crime ring next to the teeter-totter at school! He may even start hacking into the Federal Somethingerother's internet databases!! 
"JAIL!" I screamed. My son jumped four feet in the air. He had back-stepped all the way to his bedroom door and was frantically pawing for the doorknob when I broke the silence. 
I ran to him, falling on my knees, pleading to my only son. "Is that what you truly want? A lifetime in prison?! Don't you know that thievery and lyery are the cornerstones to childhood corruption? And pooping in the yard is the gateway to crime! Is that what you want? Do you want to have a rap sheet for public nudity by the time you're eight?!" 
I could hardly keep myself up. I wanted to swoon, but thought it'd be a bit too antiquated for him to grasp the subtlety. 
I gathered what was left of my integrity and looked into his eyes. "I love you. You're being really weird today, but I still love you. So you can stop being weird and stop shitting in the yard and stealing keys, okay?" 
Mouth agape, he shook his head, but it may have just been trembling. He finally found the doorknob to his room and raced into his sanctuary.
I fed the therapy jar. 
What is it with these little boys and poop? Haven't we moved on from random acts of fecal matter? That's a primate thing, right? 
Will he ever learn? Will I ever learn? These boys, they are all farts and penis and butt and poop and pee and nothing like little girls. Maybe that's a good thing, though. Maybe all of these things that make him excessively male help not only define him, but help me understand these boys' psyches. Until then, I am at a loss. 
I composed myself with a few cleansing breaths and the Morse code eye twitch subsided. I opened his door and caught him reading. Good kid. 
I walked back out into the chicken coop area. The way I have it set up, I'll be able to have them poop in the's good for soil, yanno?