Those Dirty Kids You See

Every human does this. You see dirty kids and think raised by wolves, no doubt about it.

You see them at the grocery store. The ones whose faces have concentric circles  of everything they have eaten for the past eight hours radiating outward from their mouths.

You can tell where they have been simply by what is stuck to them. That little boy has been to the mall: he has Build-A-Bear entrails stuck to his back with Cinnabon residue. That little girl has been to the park. There is a live squirrel congealed in pine sap in her hair.

But before your unzip your judgy-judger nuts, hear me out.

Babies slither into the world in a slick of unspeakable gut goo. (Heck, they were FORGED in the midst of substantial stickiness as well, if you were doing it right. If not, I can give you some pointers. Just ask. I'm not shy.) They spend the next five to seven years in an ongoing effort to MAINTAIN that level of grottiness 24-7.

Mine are without question a small herd of the children we are referring to. The raised by wolves types.

"No, Rebecca," you say. "I have seen your children, they seem mostly cleanish."

Well. The only reason this is ever the case is because the twenty-five minutes before I leave the house to go Anywhere in the Continental United States and All Points West (or East for that matter) are spent in the following manner:

• Head-to-toe wardrobe change
• Aggressive, borderline painful washcloth scrubbing of face, hands, what ever else is really offensive at the moment. Usually Buttcrack.
• Non-consensual teeth-brushing
• Clawing at ever-present dreadlocks, collecting riotously-curly blonde hair into elastic hair-containment inventions
• Various threats

This is the only reason my children appear to be clean. Because they are dreadful. They Live to Smear Themselves in All Things Vile.

They are the moist candy stick and the world is their disgusting packet of fun dip.

At the grocery, they will relieve the sample lady of all of her organic maple syrup samples, drizzle themselves sensuously, then barrel-roll majestically down the cat litter aisle while Queen's We Are the Champions plays in the background. (I don't know why.) 

When I arrive at some sort of event with my children, I resist the urge to seize the nearest person and force him or her to look at my children, notice that they are cleanish, and then acknowledge it verbally. And possibly photo-document and/or sign a written statement in the presence of a notary.

Because it ain't gonna last, that shit ain't gonna last.

In fact, I would give them around 45 seconds until...the crash and splatter of some rare vintage...the yowl of a marmot in distress...whatever sound a no-bake cookie makes when hitting a vaulted ceiling...and all is undone.

Listen. I'm not saying I am the best parent in the universe. Necessarily. All I'm saying is that whoever is, their children would shellac themselves in armadillo feces given half a chance, the same as everyone else.

The next time you see those dirty dirty children, do the right thing. Don a medical-grade disposable glove and gingerly pat the sticky child on the head. Then give a hundred dollar bill and a bottle of tequila to each of the parents, just because they tried.

Thank you and goodnight.