The Vine: July 23, 2008
I really don’t know if there is a solution to this problem, but you give good relationship advice and don’t seem too squicked by grossness, so here goes.
How do I get my boyfriend to stop blowing his nose in the shower? He likes the way the steam releases his sinuses, and I can’t really blame him for that since I tend to blow my nose IN TISSUE after a shower. He says he covers his nose with his hands completely and then rinses the snot/boogers down the drain. If this were true, however, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. It’s when I go to clean the bathroom or, worse, take a bubble bath that I have a problem.
Do you know how hard it is to scrape dried boogers off a porcelain tub? It’s a lot more difficult than you’d think. And I’ve found the boogers in various places. By the drain. On the ledge. Stuck to the wall. Blech. I’m perfectly fine with the division of labor in our house and really don’t mind cleaning the bathroom, but how do I make him understand that this is cruel and unusual punishment? I told him the next time I have to scrape a booger I’m going to put it in his food.
Soap Scum Is Fine. Boogers Are Not.
Dear Boog,
“Boyfriend, I understand that you like the way the steam cleans out your sinuses, but I have to ask you, again, to make sure that all the boogs get rinsed down the drain.It’s too hard to clean them off the tile, and it’s not real sanitary besides, so from now on, if I find a dried rocket, I’m going to have to ask you to take care of it.…I know you don’t care; I’m telling you that I care, and asking you to respect that.”
It takes two seconds to check the walls and make sure there isn’t anything untoward clinging to them; say “please,” use “I” statements, but make it clear that you don’t want to have to nag him about this, and won’t.You find dried snot in the shower, you leave him a map of the offenders and he cleans them.
He may not respond the way you’d like, in which case this is one of those times where you have to decide whether it’s more important to you to have it cleaned up or to win the battle, but even if you do have to choose between being happy or being right…you’re right.This is basic shared-shower etiquette: no hairs on the soap, don’t leave a bunch of mung in the drain, bring your own razor to the party, and if you’re slinging loogs, where they end up is on you.
Sars,
I need help, and I think you give out sound, common sense advice so I hope you have some for me.My problem is about a friend of mine who has two issues:bulimia and excessive drinking.Not a good match.Sorry this is kind of long but I think you need to know the whole story.Here’s what’s happening.
1.She has been bulimic for at least 10 years.Everyone knows it, her husband, family, and our friends, but no one talks about it.She knows that everyone knows too.
Now, I know this is her personal thing and I can’t make her stop, but it’s affecting me because every time she comes over to my house and eats, she goes immediately to the bathroom and purges and she usually leaves chunks of food on the toilet.I had a party Saturday and I had to keep an eye on her to go check the bathroom after she ate so my guests wouldn’t be subject to the mess. She got up immediately from eating and went to the bathroom. Then she later had the nerve to tell me how good the food was. I have had guests tell me in past visits they found a mess on the toilet and even in the bathroom sink.
So, I am annoyed and my husband is sick of spending money on food that gets wasted.We used to have watch parties at my house all the time but now I’ve quit inviting her over and I’m sure she is wondering why.It’s really gross, and to top it off even at my house or if we are at a bar/restaurant in a group setting when she does it, she comes back with a mess on the front of her shirt.It’s so obvious!
Do I say something?Do I bring her in my bathroom and point out the mess she made?I mean, that would be embarrassing but her problem is affecting my being able to hang out with her.
2.She’s an alcoholic, I’m not gonna lie. Her brothers call her a drunk.Again, this is common knowledge but no one will confront her.The way it’s affecting me is that since she never has any food in her belly, she gets wasted very easily.The problem is, her husband will leave her or drop her off at the bar or friend’s house, assuming that “someone” will bring her home.At my party on Saturday, her husband left!Her brothers asked her how she was getting home and she said either he would have to come back and get her or else she would “sleep here” (MY HOUSE).I never invited her to sleep over or said she could sleep over!Her brothers ended up taking her home and they were not happy about it. She was so drunk she could barely walk.
Sometimes my husband and I have taken her home from a bar because she was dropped off. Her husband doesn’t ask anyone in advance if they will take her home.He just knows someone will because someone always does.
Because of #1 and #2 above, my husband and I agreed that we do not want her at our house any longer unless her husband is with her and staying there to take her home later.But then that decision got blown by her husband leaving her unattended at our party.So really I just cannot have her over anymore.
3. We had a pool put in our backyard this year and so far this friend has dropped in unannounced and uninvited twice to “hang out” at the pool.The first time I had another friend over (who WAS invited), and she found out about it and had her husband bring her over, stopping at Wal-Mart on the way to buy a bathing suit.My friend and I were out by the pool and suddenly she and her husband walked outside (with beer in a cooler).When they showed up at the front door, my husband assumed I had called and invited her, but I didn’t.The husband then announced he was dropping her off!Oh my gosh, I was stunned at the rudeness!
We were about to wrap it up because we were going to dinner so we told them they would have to leave in about 30 minutes.It was so rude, she just showed up not knowing what our plans were and had no invitation.The second time it happened, my husband invited her brothers over to swim.The guys were out back having guy time, and I was in the house doing laundry.I had no plans to go outside.About 10 minutes after the brothers arrived, she showed up!I was like, oh what are you doing here?She responded, “Oh hanging with the guys.”I know the brothers had told her on the phone they were coming over so she decided to come over too!
I’m at my wits’ end with trying to decide how to handle this.We have a very close-knit circle of friends of which she is a part, along with her brothers. All the guys play on a softball league together so we are all together frequently, hang out every weekend at our local watering hole, et cetera.For reference, this is a 31-year-old woman.
Any ideas? I have a lot of issues with this girl and I don’t know where to begin.
Joy
Dear And Pain,
I know that dealing with a person’s addiction(s) is not easy, and that it can often feel very much like the diseases are being done to you; they just start to become the focus of every gathering, every conversation about every gathering…I get it.But I don’t get a lot of sympathy from you here, and it sounds to me like this woman is in serious trouble, not least because her husband dumps her on other people for “wife-sitting,” and because neither he nor her siblings or friends will even point out that she has boot chunks on her clothing.You seem more concerned with the “embarrassment” than with what a pathetic existence that must add up to for her.
And again, I get it.I’ve been there; many of us have.But if nobody will say anything to her about it?If nobody’s going to sack up and tell her, listen, I don’t judge you, but these behaviors are really out of control and you need to get some help?
Because that’s what you need to do.If this really is a friend of yours, you need to spend more time with her in settings where she’s not going to drink, and where she’s not going to binge/purge.Go shopping.Take a walk.See a museum.Stop centering your social time around bars and meals.
And when she does act out, you’re going to have to start calling her on it.Point out that she has vomitus on her clothing, and send her home, husband or not.Point out that she’s made a mess in the bathroom, ask her to clean it up, and send her home, husband or not.Sit her down and say, your drinking is a problem; you can’t control it.Your bulimia is a problem; you can’t control it.Kick it Intervention-style: “Your addictions are affecting me in the following ways: you’re grossing out my other guests.You’re getting so drunk that we basically have to draw lots to see who takes care of you.”
I’d love to know what in the Sam Hill her husband is thinking, because this seems like attention-seeking behavior on her part and the guy is doing exactly the wrong things in response, kind of (and if you do nothing else, give him to understand that she’s not anyone’s job but her own, and he can do as he likes but you’re not covering the service for him anymore), but if her family isn’t going to give her the business, well, that doesn’t mean you can’t.
But understand: she needs help, and that should be why you’re taking this up with her.Not because she’s embarrassing you or she’s a pain in your ass; not because you’d rather just cut her off, but you can’t, because of the social circle.Think about what it’s like to be her, even for one day.Think about how fucking wretched she is, how beyond the pale she’s acting; think about where eating disorders come from and how alcoholism might play into that.She hates herself; she’s acting this way, on some level, so that the rest of you will hate her too and she can be right about how little she thinks she’s worth.Think about what it’s like to hold yourself in exactly zero esteem.
It’s tough when someone is like this; I don’t judge you for getting fed up with how it’s affecting you.I’m just saying, remember that, as miserable as she’s making the rest of you, it’s a tiny fraction of what it’s doing to her — and it’s going to kill her.This is not about presumptuous use of the pool.If someone doesn’t get out in front of this with her, her kidneys are going to do it before you have a chance.She’s sick enough that she can’t act right.You need to operate from there.
Friends of ours are expecting a baby later this month. My four-year-old daughter is thrilled and has been playing mommy by putting baby dolls under her shirts for months.
Today when she asked “I know babies grow in mommies’ tummies but how do they get out?” I was truthful and said “our private areas” — our word for “vagina.” My daughter had no problem with this other than to ask “does it hurt?”I said sometimes but getting a beautiful baby makes all the hurt worthwhile. And that was the end of that or so I thought.
When I repeated the conversation to my mother she was livid. She told me I might as well have told my daughter there was no Santa Claus. She went on to say that kids have no filter and what if she repeats this at school or on the playground?
I still don’t feel I did anything wrong, but maybe I’m missing something here? Did I just drop the ball? Or is my mom overreacting?
Bad mom in NJ?
Dear Mom,
I think she’s overreacting.I mean, it’s accurate information.Okay, maybe not the “tummies” part, but you have to pitch it to their age and what they can reasonably understand, and “uterus” is maybe a little more nuance than a four-year-old can do, so: I think your answer was just fine.It’s correct, and it’s appropriate for your daughter’s age.
As for their not having filters…eh, so what.Ninety-eight percent of people understand that preschoolers just make announcements about whatever: Wall-E spoilers, what kind of juice they drank at lunch, “that lady SURE IS FAT, MOMMY” (my mother just cringed without knowing why) (the lady was, no joke, right next to us in line at the supermarket) (wherever you are, lady, I’m really sorry).It’s an age where they like to know things, and they like to show you they know things, but then “tact” is not on the list of things they know yet.Or “whispering,” sometimes.Times like…1976.Sigh.
Anyway.Certainly if your daughter is in a setting like school or a playground, an announcement about babies coming from private areas is probably not the most egregious thing they’ve heard that day, much less ever.If your daughter were telling playmates that there’s no Santa, that would be one thing, but this, I think you handled just right.
As far as what to say to your mom, tell her you appreciate her concern, but you told your daughter the truth — or as much of it as she needs, at her age — and you don’t think it’s going to be a problem.Then change the subject…to how much ruder this advice columnist you read was at the same age.Heh.
Tags: etiquette friendships health and beauty kids the fam
I have a vague memory of my Mom’s favorite college professor coming to visit her new namesake, my sister, and me inquiring whether or not she was pregnant also. Because she had that middle-aged tummy thing going on.
I believe my mom wanted to smack the vocabulary right out of my 3 year old head. :D
We also teach our boys the anatomically correct terms for their penises (although we’re not as extreme about correctness as my sister, who insisted that all four of her kids use “urinate” instead of “pee” and “have a bowel movement” instead of “poop”. Yes, they grew up to be weird kids.)
But my Jehovah’s Witness nanny was pretty freaked out that we used the right terms. She asked in horror if we had taught them that. It turned out, she was referring to it as “his manhood”.
To her credit, she now uses the right terms, and without even wincing.
“(I)f you’re slinging loogs, where they end up is on you.”
Oh, Sars … so many layers there … *Ahem*
“I have a friend who answered all “But where will the baby come out?” questions with a bright, cheery “Why, in the hospital!” (But that was largely because she had pregnancy complications that were making a C-section likely, and she didn’t want to have the “when a man and a woman love each other very much, they make a baby in her tummy and then a doctor guts her like a trout” conversation.)”
First off – ow. Secondly – actually, I like the silly hospital response. While it may not work for all the kids, for some kids and at some times nonspecificity is worth at least a try *if you have any doubt*. And, if it doesn’t fly, humor can defuse the sense of intensity we telegraph in these contexts – so then the follow up with the particulars Not-Bad Mom noted may not come across with the “wow” factor that generally gives rise to most of the blurts and repeats. (The “we don’t talk about these things in public” addendum amounts to a guarantee that they will be discussed at the earliest possible opportunity with that special brand of vigor and intensity Exclusive Knowledge inevitably inspires.)
“Incidentally, my parents took me to Zipperhead in Philly when I was not quite two, and I took one look at the (pierced, mohawked, pink-haired) clerk behind the register and said, “Look Mommy! Silly clown!” My parents almost had strokes, but the dude was awesomely cool about it, apparently. And then gave me a balloon with the Misfits logo on it.”
Aw. That is adorable. On both parties’ parts.
My son, aged ~4, also asked how the baby gets out. I opted for honesty, and said that women have an opening between their legs that connects to where the baby lives in the mom’s “tummy.” Horrified, he said, “You mean… you POOP the baby out?”
“No, no,” I hastened to explain. “This is a different opening. It’s called a vagina, and it’s more… well, more to the front of the body.”
He looked at me curiously. “Like… like your belly-button? Is a vagina a belly-button?”
I could see where this was going – within mere seconds he was going to demand to SEE this alleged opening. So I bailed. “Uh, kinda! Sort of like a belly-button, almost. Hey, want to go to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal?”
End of discussion, or so I thought.
A few days later, when I picked him up at daycare, he ran up to me, flung his arms around my legs, and planted a big ol’ smacky kiss in the middle of my belly, about navel-level. Then he looked up at me and grinned, and shouted (it seemed like shouting), “Moooooommy! I kissed your vaGIIIIIIIIIIna!”
Later that evening over a stiff drink with a good friend, also a mother of a 4 year old, I related the tale. “But damn, how SHOULD I have answered him?” I asked. She said, “When Jacob asked me how the baby gets out, I told him the doctor does it.”
@Sars – OMG, if I made it into the Lexicon with “HM/WB” I would die of glee!
Our family definitely had our share of “Don’t Tell Nanny” situations. (Nanny was my great grandmother, my grandma was pretty chill so she wasn’t a concern.) Usually with regard to various cousins cohabitating with their SOs. I don’t remember how it worked, exactly, probably we were just able to get away with it because she was old and not entirely with it, but we were also expected to do a lot of glossing over the out-of-wedlock birth status of a few kids. Thankfully I was old enough by that time not to ruin any secrets!
@Jen M. – Haha, your story reminds me of a similar one of my own. My very first ever bad word was said in reference to my little brother when he was an infant. I was about 3, and he was crying in his crib and I said “That damn baby!” and my mom happened to overhear, and hooo boy, I was in trouble! I can actually even vaguely remember it, I think it’s one of my earliest memories.
This is the best Vine comments thread yet.
I mean…tragedy in the self-destructive woman, but…boogers! Bajindas! hee!
Tangent of a tangent – in 1977 or thereabouts, at age 7, I was presented with the “A Doctor Talks to 8- to 10-Year Olds” booklet (and the followup hit, “…10- to 12-Year-Olds,”) plus, around 1980, some mid-60’s pamphlets from Kimberly-Clark explaining how to use belted pads, and how it was an old wives’ tale that you could get sick by bathing during your period, and you didn’t have to stay home from school, etc.
However, Mom also pretty much made me read “Clan of the Cave Bear” and its first two sequels as a 15-year-old, and I am convinced that she did this to avoid ever talking to me in any way about sex. How this shaped my psyche and/or standards is open to question, but hearing that I was reading the books (news delivered in a studied, offhand teenage way rather than a toddler yell, of course,) did at least shock a certain aunt in a gratifying way.
@Jen S: Yay Winnebagos! Good times.
@NJ Mom: I’ve just been reminiscing about all the sentistive issues my mom handled in age-appropriate terms, including being adopted at birth and all the “who’s my REAL mommy?” type questions… at age four. Your response was just perfect. Her friends probably already know about that stuff anyway.
To thank my folks for all their gracious handling of traumatic issues, I waited until the whole fam damily was visiting from back east and we were doing the obligatory So Cal Tourist Trap visit to Movieland Wax Museum… and picked that moment to go running right up to the big statue of David out front, point at Little David and yell, “Mommy! Mommy! LOOK at THAT!!”
Just in case that wasn’t enough embarrassment, I set off David’s security alarm too. Good thing I was only two. Love you, Mom and Dad!!
Boog, if you’re willing to go to the mat over this, I have a suggestion. When my brother and I were teenagers, I had waist-length hair that clogged up the shower drains. My brother *hated* cleaning my hair out of the drain. I would always promise to clean it up after my showers but then forget.
Here’s how he trained me to actually do what I’d promised: if he wanted to take a shower and my hair was in the drain, he would find me, make me stop what I was doing, and ask me to clean it up like I said I would. It didn’t take that long before I started to remember and do it on my own.
You could do something similar. Tell your boyfriend that you’d like him to clean up his boogers; he’ll probably say “yeah, that’s fair” and then forget, like I did. Then, the next time you’re cleaning and find a booger, stop cleaning, go find him, and make him scrape it off himself. I think if he has to do it himself he’ll finally get how annoying it is and see that he’s not rinsing the snot away like he thinks he is.
I think “Bad Mom”‘s baby explanation was great – true without being too much info. When I was about three or four, my mom told me that the daddy puts a seed in the mommy and then the baby grows. Since my dad loves gardening, I thought that it meant that he had somehow cut open my mother and planted some kind of baby-plant that grew into me. Eventually she left the book someone mentioned up-thread “Where Did I Come From?” conspicuously on my bookshelf.
My older brother actually had a similar grocery store incident to the one Sars had. He couldn’t have been older than five, and walked up to an overweight woman in the store and asked her, “are you fat?” My mother tells me the woman was not amused, though my embarrassing childhood story (when I pointed to a black woman and said, “look mommy, a chocolate person!”) was more amusing to the involved stranger.
As for Santa, my mom told me he wasn’t real when I was little, probably to make me feel better about being Jewish and not celebrating Christmas like most of my friends. I went on to seriously consider telling them whenever they did something I didn’t like. I never did because I knew I’d get in trouble, but I think I got some sick, juvenile satisfaction out of knowing that they would eventually find out anyway.
“I had NO IDEA what it meant, I had just heard older kids talking about it and probably wanted to sound more worldly.”
I did a similar thing to my mother at age 5 — not about blowjobs, but parroting something I’d heard adults saying, specifically the adults on the soaps my mom sometimes watched (but tried to keep me away from). One night at bedtime I told her very grandly, “Good night — AND GOOD RIDDANCE.” Ma: “…” I had no clue what it meant, and when it was explained to me I felt terrible.
When I’m at their house these days, she and I still say it to each other. “I’m turning in, Ma.” “Good night. AND GOOD RIDDANCE.”
Amazing how many of a family’s running gags come from when the kids are teeny.
@Kat: Oh, that cursing remark reminded me of a friend’s story. Her two-year-old grandson is learning to go on the potty, and one day he was on the potty while my friend was on the phone with her daughter. They’re talking and my friend hears in the background, “Aw, shit!”
Friend: What was that?!
Daughter, trying desperately not to laugh: He picked up his roll of toilet paper and it rolled away from him, and now he’s trying to collect it.
Grandson, not having much success: Aw, no!
When she told me this, I was dying.
My mother likes to tell the story of me singing Eric Clapton’s “Cocaine” while out in public. Ahh, good times.
My 4 year old cousin: “Gramma, why do you have 2 chins?”
Grandma: “Well honey, that’s because Gramma is fat.”
Cousin: “That’s ok Gramma, I like that you’re squishy!”
To this day, my Grandma can’t tell this story without cracking up!
My sister did the “OMG LOOK AT THE FAT LADY” thing at that age. We still hear about that one.
Anyway, when I was five or six years old my sister had tried to explain sex to me (she’s three years older), and I had been confused, so I went to my mom and asked her to explain it to me. She said that to make babies, people have to mate, just like animals do (we were big on the Discovery Channel at my house), and that to do that the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina. (I remember thinking that you would have to do it in the bathroom, because that’s where you go to be naked.) I told my little friends about it. It was a kerfuffle. My school called my parents in to be yelled at by the principal for telling me the truth instead of, I don’t know, making up some lie about storks and cabbage patches. My parents pretty much told them to fuck off. I turned out okay, and so did the other kids in my class.
Heh, this chain has been making me giggle since it started. It reminded me of my most embarrassing childhood blurting story, although in my case it’s a little different because rather than blurt out a truth (“that lady is FAT!”) I blurted a complete and utter untruth.
When I was four my father and I were at the local mall in the medium sized town I grew up in. As we ascended the escalator I started bugging Dad about going to the toy store. I can’t recall why we were there, but toys were not on the agenda and we were in a hurry. Dad was not relenting on the toy store thing so as we got off at the top of the escalator, I threw myself to the floor and started yelling “Daddy, don’t hit me!”
Ahem. My father (or mother, for that matter) has never in my 27 years laid a hand on me. Not even a spanking during a childhood tantrum. To make matters worse, the top of that escalator ended right in the food court. And my father is a family doctor. And several of his patients were sitting there to witness the display.
I do not think my father has ever quite forgiven me. All we can figure is that I got the line “daddy, don’t hit me!” from a television show or movie I had seen but that begs the question – what the hell was I watching on tv at the age of four?
I was 6 when my youngest brother was born. I was staying with my grandmother while my parents were at the hospital and she overheard this gem:
Cousin: How did they get a baby anyway?
Me: I think they ordered him at the bar.
The kicker is my parents don’t drink. Another time a lady came up to me in a store and told me I was a cute kid. I explained to her that was because my mom is a fox.
Joy- I finally sought help for and eventually overcame my eating disorder when a casual friend told me that she knew all about it. It spun my head around. Believe me, acknowledging her behavior will only help.
Another mom chiming in, in support of NJ Mom. Here’s my theory: if you want them to talk to you about stuff when they’re teenagers, don’t start out by acting like it’s embarrassing and shameful, when they’re smaller. I’ve always taken a very matter-of-fact approach, with proper terms for body parts, and always answered questions calmly and honestly (though tailored to the age level and amount of curiosity – if you let the kid lead the questioning, it’s often surprising how little they really want to know at any given time).
Regarding being Jewish and dealing with Santa – my son is going into second grade, so I’m assuming it’ll be something less of an issue this year, than the last couple? Anyway, I tell him that it is rude to tell someone they can’t believe something, if it’s not hurting anyone. He doesn’t like it when other people won’t go along with his ‘pretends’ (he’s been a cat for some months now…), so he knows how it feels and he needs to be respectful of other beliefs.
Heh. All y’all with the “chocolate people” stories are lucky you didn’t do what I did, growing up in BirmingBullConnorham, Alabama. Our church was fairly lily white, but one day when I was three or so, a new kid showed up in Sunday school. He was the first black person I had ever seen, and his skin was a beautiful, velvety brown. Like chocolate.
So I licked his arm. Wasn’t what I had expected.
Didn’t go over well, AT ALL. My Dad smacked me until he got bored and wanted to move on with his life.
If the kid wanted an answer, there wasn’t much choice but it answer it lest you get the question again far more publicly. Seems like a great answer.
My mom had to have the sex talk with me when I was about 7 because we came home from school and two of the cats were going at it on the lawn. Pretty hard to ignore that, especially because the noises were not subtle at all.
My 4-year-old flower girl: Why do you have a big fat belly?
Me: Because I like to eat potato chips!
SarahC, I’m with you. “HM/WB” is something I have totally missed over the years… Could anyone clear that up? Thanks in advance.
This thread has me ROLLING.
When my second brother was born, first brother and I (toddlers at the time) upon hearing we had a little brother, asked if we could see his penis.
I was a cashier at Target a few years ago, a man came through my line with a little girl — maybe three years old. He asked me if I had a trash can, gesturing to the girl. I said yes and held my hand out to her so she could give me whatever needed to be thrown away. She then proceeded to spit the piece of gum she was chewing in to my hand. I thought the man was going to die of embarrassment.
I babysat for a seven year old boy, and he asked me if I could do a cartwheel. I told him I couldn’t, and he asked me (very solemnly) if that was because I was fat.
I learned how babies are made at the age of 5, when my brother, 12 years older, got his ex-girlfriend knocked up. Imagine what my parents must have been going through–the eldest about to be an un-wed teen father, and suddenly having to explain to a 5 year old how babies are made, why they are sometimes a “surprise,” why some mommies and daddies don’t live together, and that even though brother was grounded for life, we were happy about the baby and love the baby.
Wait, does this mean I came from the wrong side of the tracks?
“HM/WB” is an abbreviation for “have met/was bitch.” It’s from this: https://tomatonation.com/?p=2262
So, it’s not something you’ve been missing for years.
I was an early talker, and (unfortunately for her, when I was little) I inherited my mom’s sense of humor. When I was about 18-20 months old, my mom and I were in the checkout line at the grocery store. I was whining for some candy, and my mom told me no. All of the sudden, I stopped, gave her an evil smile, and said “NO MOMMY DON’T HIT ME!” really loudly … and with wonderful diction! Needless to say, I got my candy!
@Liz in MN — I read Clan of the Cave Bear I think when I was sometime between 9 and 11. I must have already had the basic info on sex at that point (little brother came when I was nearly 6, too old to be BSed very effectively), but looking back, I’m amazed my parents let me read it. I guess they figured I read pretty much everything I could get my hands on so it wasn’t likely to traumatize me any more than anything else.
There’s a story about my brother at the Natural History Museum when he was about three. One of my parents pointed out a big fish, vegging out near the bottom of the tank, to my brother, something like “Oh, look at that big fish!” and my brother responded “Lazy fucker!” Heh.
@ JH in Calgary: Hee! Your comment must have come up when I was writing mine. Great minds think alike!
I think I covered all the bases here —
1. Waiting in the deli line, sitting on my dad’s shoulders, black dude in front of us in line: “Daddy, that man is brown like my crayon.”
2. Playing cops and robbers with my uncle — forget which one I was — all I know is I jumped out into the hallway, finger-guns pointed, and yelled “Stick ’em up, shithead.” My uncle nearly choked to death trying not to laugh while he went to get my father.
3. On a different tack, when I was real little, we lived in a duplex, the same house where my grandfather had grown up when he was a kid. One night at dinner, my father was jokingly began one of those “Well, as long as you live in _my_ house, we don’t watch TV at the dinner table…” and I cut in with, “Daddy, this is Grampy’s house.” Game, set and match to the three year old. I think my father knew then he was in for trouble.
When I was 4 1/2 and my mom got pregnant, they bought me Where Did I Come From? , a very, very honest illustrated book about the issue. As an adult, I find it to be funny as hell and I still own a copy. Sure, I told my Catholic kindergarten class about how my mommy got pregnant (and was probably really interested in the “it feels kind of like a really big sneeze” description), but I never had any unhealthy interests.
Of course, my mom also gave birth at home and probably wanted to prepare me for that — and no matter how interesting the sex part is, nothing prepares a 5 year old girl for THAT. The book may have told me where the baby was going to come out, but ….. damn. 22 years later, the experience of watching a baby be born was the best damn birth control ever.
I might have to dump the booger guy. I guess I understand why you’d want to blow your nose, but dude. DUDE. I say buy him a pack of washcloths and say “you will blow into these and you will do your own laundry when they get dirty.”
I’m loving the child story hilarity, but I’m kind of in to comment on the tragedy.
It’s true, this woman is sick – and I’m not sure I agree with Fay that the sickness doesn’t give her an excuse to act like a jerk.
I’m chronic depressive, with serious self-esteem problems, and intermittently self-destructive and bulimic. It’s true, this shit comes from a deep, internalised self-loathing, and while I’ve never had it as bad as this woman seems to, I’m luckier, in that my friends don’t just leave it be.
I’m better at hiding the signs of my illness, but that just means people who love me watch for it, make a point of making sure I know that it’s unhealthy, that it’s wrong. They make me promise to call them before I do these things, and when I slip, and don’t, they’re still supportive and try to help me. They also encourage me to get professional medical attention for this stuff.
I’d have killed myself years ago if it weren’t for them. I’m not even slightly kidding, and the thing about being an asshole out of illness is that you need someone who recognises why you’re doing it.
A couple of years ago, my depression was out of hand, and I *did* become an asshole. I was deliberately trying to alienate my friends, both to validate my self-loathing and to make it easier to believe it would be okay to kill myself, that people would be better off without me.
And my friends did not let that shit fly. I had people on the phone with me, delegating each other to keep calling me if I hung up while my best friend dropped everything she was doing to come and get me. Picked me up, withstood my best attempts to be hateful, hugged me, told me she loved me, and then didn’t let me out of arm’s reach for the next two days. We got through it. I’m doing a lot better now, but she – and others – have made it clear that even if I try to send them away, they’re not going.
I don’t try any more, but it means more to me than words could ever express that I have people in my life who love me, who think I’m worthy of this kind of assurance, and who aren’t going to leave me no matter what.
Joy’s friend doesn’t even get that kind of support from her husband. She has a “close-knit” circle of friends who are letting her commit slow suicide in front of them and no-one does anything to stop her. Take it from me – throwing up without making a mess or leaving visible signs you’ve done so is NOT HARD. If she’s making it that goddamn obvious, it’s because, on some level, she desperately wants people to notice, to intervene, to show they care – but it seems like no-one’s doing that, which is only going to make her sicker.
She needs help. Professional help. But she’s not going to be able to get there unless her friends step up and help her. She might yell at you, she might tell you she hates you, always has, might make nasty remarks about everything you’re insecure about. This is more or less exactly on the same level as a cat who lashes out and scratches you deeply when it’s hurt and you’re trying to help.
We want the help, we just don’t believe we deserve it, and we don’t think rationally when we’re that far down. Acting out on this scale isn’t “being a jerk”, it’s a desperate, desperate cry for someone to notice that you’re deeply and you-think-irrevocably messed up and you need someone to tell you that not only is this wrong, and unhealthy, but you deserve better and someone cares.
To pull out a cliche: It’s a cry for help.
Her husband’s an ass, her brothers are no better and may well be part of the original problem. She needs a friend.
Joy, Sars is right. Your friend probably hates herself and has zero self-esteem. Based on your post, she also has some severe psychological and emotional issues. My guess is that she has no boundaries. My best advice to you, as her friend, is to model what good boundaries look like. For example “Listen, you can’t come over anymore. It is really uncomfortable for me and my husband when you are obviously purging after dinner, and then get wasted. And, when we have other people over, it’s really unfair and inconsiderate for us to let you act like that in front of them.” She might be shocked and angry and think you and your husband are total dicks, but seriously. Don’t have too much hope that she would be understand, because she doesn’t seem to have much insight into how her behavior affects others. I am going out on a limb here – she’s probably pretty selfish. Plus, as most of us know, taking a realistic stab at yourself is painful but always essential to growth. It doesn’t seem like she’s mature enough or emotionally capable of facing the truth.
But before you have the conversation about how her actions affect you, I would also recommend confronting her in a loving, gentle, and firm way. Something like “Hey, you’re wonderful, and I’m glad we’re friends. But I am really concerned about your bulimia and alcohol use. Have you considered counseling?” Maybe get a good referral that you can hand to her. If she wigs out, just say “Hey, I love you. I wouldn’t be able to call myself a good friend if I just sit idly by and watch you put yourself through this crap”. And, leave it at that.
That’s pretty much due diligence for friendship, in my opinion. What she does with your discussion is up to her. I was rocking a hard core alcohol issue a few years ago and a friend confronted me at lunch. I was so embarrassed and angry, but then I realized what a good friend she really was – willing to sacrifice our friendship out of her care for me. It’s a happy ending. I got some help and I’m glad she was such a bitch, which is what I thought she was at the time.
If her brothers are all “what gives?” You know what? Everybody’s an adult. They should realize that no one needs to put up with her crap, and if they really cared about her they would have good boundaries too. She probably shows up at your casa all the time because it’s one of the last places she can go in all her wingnut glory.
I feel really bad for her. Living in your own hell ain’t a picnic. But at 31 years old, there is no room for excuses, and everyone around her should stop making them for her. Until you put the ball in her court, you are an enabler.
I am the oldest of four, and have a sister that is only a year and a half younger than me, so I don’t remember having many questions about babies. I pretty much grew up with the idea that a baby grows in the tummy and comes out at the hospital through a special opening. Once my brother came along and I “helped” change diapers my mom had to teach me more specific words than “bottom.” Because boys and girls bottoms are different, and even pre-schoolers will notice eventually.
I suspect there is a whole contingent of women who got a lot of their informal sex ed from the “Earth’s Children” series. I picked up “The Clan of the Cave Bear” while visiting relatives the summer I turned 11. They did tell my parents about the sex (and rapes) and but other than an offhand warning that this was an adult book nobody said anything. Except I did get to take their paperback copies of “Clan”, “The Valley of the Horses” and “the Mammoth Hunters” home with me since I was so entranced. Reading these books was much more informative than the dry, and only boringly scientific, sex ed in school!
My mother and SIL were at the store with my two nieces, ages 3.5 years and 11 months. A rather large lady on an electric cart started a conversation with them. My mother almost died of embarrassment when the following exchange occured…
LOEC: “Your baby sister is beautiful.”
Niece: “I know. Like me.”
LOEC: “Can I take her home with me?”
Niece: “Don’t need her. (pointing at LOEC’s belly) Yours in there.”
Oh, wow — on a similar note to many of you, at a very young age (but old enough to be running around and talking, anyway) I was shopping with my mother and saw a black kid a little younger than me and started pursuing her. Kid was not having it and running back to her mom, my mom called over to me to “Stop chasing that baby and come back here!” to which I (loudly) responded “But, Mommy — it’s a CHOCOLATE baby!” In Washington, DC. In 1966. In a department store where we were…more than somewhat in the minority. There was a dead silence for a minute, followed (fortunately) by laughter from all around as my embarrassed mother scooped me up.
And my younger cousin one time, in an art museum when we were, I don’t know, I’m guessing 6 and 11, yelled across the large, open, echoing gallery that I should “Come look at the boobs on THIS one!”
One of my daughters was 3 or 4 and saw maybe a minute and a half of a daytime talk show where the guest was a dominatrix (before I noticed she was watching and changed the channel) and learned a new phrase which she found very amusing and used to great effect at preschool the next day — “Get down on your knees and bark like a dog!” (Said, naturally enough with great authority to several of the boys in her class…)
Oh, and here’s a thought for Boog — if what you’re objecting to is cleaning snot off the shower wall, maybe you should discuss HIM cleaning the shower and you can pick up some chore that he normally does. Just swap. Let him clean dried-up snot out of the shower a few times and I bet he stops.
When I was wee my mom and I were in a public bathroom when I saw my first black person. I asked (with that subtle toddler voice) why that woman had make-up all over her body. Apparently the black woman was more amused than offended and showed me that brown was her actual skin color and didn’t wash off when she washed her hands.
Although it’s not an inappropriate word story, my favorite small child tale was when I was a worldly 7 year old explaining the ways of things to my mere 4 year old sister. She was all on about having “Buh-sgetti” for dinner so I rolled my eyes, heaved a big sigh and said “It’s not Buh-sgetti, Emme, it’s Puh-sgetti.”
My niece was three when, after told it was bedtime, proceeded to strip completely naked in front of me, my mom, and my boyfriend at the time, and dance around the room chanting “look at my body! look at my body!” My BF was blushing to beat the band and trying to look anywhere BUT at the tiny stripper-in-training. Who then proceeded to stomp her foot and demand loudly, “Look. At. My. Body!”
A year later, I took the same niece with me and my boyfriend (different guy this time) into Victoria’s Secret, and the dear sweet girl went over to the one wall display and walked the entire length, squeezing each bra and saying “Boobies!” with every squeeze.
Gotta love the little ones!
The time my mother wanted to disown my three-year-old self, we were at the doctor’s office. She was scheduling a follow-up appointment and I was wandering around the waiting room looking at people.
I saw a lady with some dark whiskers on her lip and asked, “Did you know you have a moustache?” She ignored me so I asked again quite shrilly, “HEY I ASKED IF YOU KNOW YOU HAVE A MOUSTACHE? DO YOU KNOW?”
I thought my mother was going to have kittens. She scooped me out of there so fast I almost had whiplash.
As a wee thing with some potty training, but not having the full grasp of the wiping of the poo, I still needed my parents’ help closing the deal.
My mom had a friend from college over (which was a big occasion, since she moved far away after she graduated), and I snuck off to the bathroom to be a big girl and do my business by myself. But then, oh no! I need a wipe! So I waddled out into the living room, pants around ankles, turned around for emphasis and yelled “MOMMYYYY! POOOOOOOOOOP!” at the top of my lungs.
That may have been the day I learned to do it myself.
“Here’s my theory: if you want them to talk to you about stuff when they’re teenagers, don’t start out by acting like it’s embarrassing and shameful, when they’re smaller.”
Yes! That worked for me too…Babygirl trusted my advice & talked to me about (nearly) everything, and brought her friends to me for advice too. I still feel honored!
When Mom explained human reproduction to me I told her to “quit making up stories, that would NEVER work! It’s SILLY!”
Man, these responses are slaying me!
The mention of washcloths for the boogery boyfriend reminded me — I’ve dated a few guys who use handkerchiefs. Maybe the BF could keep a handkerchief or washcloth in the shower, blow into it, and then rinse down the drain so the cloth isn’t hopelessly fouled. He can then wash or replace it (putting the used one in the laundry) as often as he wants to, but either way, the boogers don’t have to be dealt with directly except by him.
Count me in with the “Earth’s Children” series-as-sexual-education. My mom had issues stemming from HER mother never talking to them about uncomfortable topics (Sex, babies, periods – please note, this woman was an RN.), so we were educated at a young age. In fact, I don’t ever remember not knowing exactly how babies are made, or why I would some day have a period. Those books, though, were much more, uhm, descriptive? I was probably 11 or 12…and people freak out about Harry Potter! Sheesh.
OK, two kid stories:
My brother, when he was nearing age two, had just been given the “we don’t talk to strangers” speech. This kid looked like a Precious Moments doll, so people were always coming up to coo about him, so my parents made some point about “bad” people, but made sure to emphasize that he was never to go anywhere with a stranger.
Well, at the grocery store soon after that, mom politely said “excuse me” as she squeezed passed a little old man who was looking at something. In his best Important Voice, my brother (in the cart) said loudly, “Don’t talk to him, mommy. He’s a BAD MAN, mommy.” The old man smiled, at least, but mom was horrified.
One time when I was about 4, my dad had come home from work and he and mom had gone to their room for a moment to themselves away from 3 kiddos. I knocked on the door, wanting to see dad, and mom told me that they were having a private conversation, and they’d be done in a minute. I responded very heatedly with, “it’s about juynesses and penises. I WANNA SEE.”
I have not yet lived that down – but I have always loved that plural of vagina.
Just wanted to chime in in regard to Joy’s friend. She’s not getting drunk, acting out, leaving vomit on the toilet, etc., to annoy or offend you. Like others have said, it’s a cry for help–especially the fact that she makes her behaviors and problems so public. In my experience, bulimics don’t come out of the bathroom with chunks on their shirts and leave a mess in the bathroom if they don’t want people to know they’re struggling. She’s asking you to confront her and help her.
I’m about to die laughing and I really can’t because I’m at work. This is an AWESOME thread. I remember my mother sitting down with me and my sister and reading one of those “this is what sex is/this is how babies are made book” – under protest (mine) because I REALLY wasn’t remotely interested. My mother used to tell me that her mother never told her these things (the day she got her period, she thought she was bleeding to death) so from the time we were small, she was very open about how we would develop, etc. I give her a lot of credit for that, because she came from a generation that didn’t discuss those things.
Personally I have no kids but I do a lot of babysitting and occasional nanny work. Unless a child is being deliberately rude, I don’t let anything they do or say shock me. I don’t want them to feel that they can’t be open and honest with the adults around them; fortunately, their parents are pretty much the same way.
My funniest experiences so far havebeen the following:
Emma (age 3): “What are those?” (gently touching my boobs and trying to get a closer look – her mom is super-skinny and very flat)
Me: “Breasts. You’ll have them someday when you’re grown up.”
Emma: “OH!” (trying to get a much closer look, to her mother’s horror)
Then there’s 2 year old Frankie. Apparently he’s going to be a breast man, because he can’t keep his hands off mine. I’m working on boundaries with him because he does need to learn about inappropriate touching (lest he grow up to have multiple harrassments suits filed against him). So my response is usually:
“Yeah, those are boobs. Quit pokin’ em. They’re mine.”
When my oldest daughter was about two we were having dinner with my in-laws. When she bit into her hard shelled taco it broke into pieces and fell onto her plate. She shook her head sadly and said “goddammit.”
A year or so later she developed a fear of bubbles. My husband was giving her a bath and she started shrieking like she was being murdered. He had rinsed the shampoo from her hair, leaving bubbles in the water. When I asked her what was wrong, she replied “Daddy put all these goddamn bubbles in my bath.”
Dude, it’s so hard not to laugh sometimes when kids say something totally bad! I worked for a while at a non-profit for kids, and this sweet, completely adorable (like, future heart-breaker level of cute) little boy of 6 got in an argument with a girl of about ten who was an irritating, stuck-up drama queen. He called her a “f***ing b*tch.” It was all we could do to hold in our laughter until we could get out of view/earshot (while he was escorted off for a talking-to.)
One of the other best stories from that job was when a boy (Josh) was invited over to another boy’s (Mike) house to play. Mike’s dad: “So, Josh, are you coming over to our house today?” Josh, very matter-of-fact: “No, my mom says you don’t watch your kids!”
@Inksmudge – OMG, the “look at my body!” story had me in stitches over here!
Also, what is the male equivalent of have met/was bitch? Cuz I really need that to explain why I think that Steven Tyler needs to go live in a cave somewhere.
My parents’ favorite embarrassing story to trot out is my comment on my baby sister, when she came home from the hospital – “Whose bright idea was this?”
I was three, and no one ever satisfactorily answered my question. It took quite a few years before my annoyance wore off.
Re: boogers – cover each dried booger with a post-it note. Worth a try! You could even write “BOOGER” on each post-it.
Another post-it near the drain with the word “DRAIN” written on it and an arrow might help.
This comment thread is epic. :-)
We got a gem from our 4-year-old “niece” on the 4th of July (actually, two). Just after she and her parents got to our house, she decided, absolutely out of the blue, to explain to us that she says “holy cow, not holy shit”.
Us: . . . wait, what?!
Faith: I say holy cow, not holy shit.
Us: [trying desperately not to laugh] Wait, WHAT?!
Faith continues to explain.
Faith’s mother, finally regaining her composure: How about we don’t say either of them!
We still have no idea where it came from.
The other was completely my husbands fault. We lovingly call the larger of our two cats “fat ass”. Josh was trying to get him out from under the bed and said “Come here, fat ass!”. Cue Faith: “Come here, fat ass!”.
This is why my husband and I have vowed to stop swearing at home as soon as I get pregnant.
What is it about the retail environment that inspires kids to ask these questions?
Several years ago whilst in the automotive aisle at Target, my then-6-year old son looked up at me with a sweet, quizzical expression and bellowed ‘So, Mom, how do the sperm and egg get together, anyway?’
Completely out of the blue, although with Mikey he had most likely been having this conversation in his head for a while and just decided to include me (and the rest of the store) at that moment.
Even worse: the unseen guy one aisle over who chimed in ‘Yeah, Mom, how do the sperm and egg get together?’
Mikey’s big sister, 10 at the time, wanted to kill us both and then go take out the joker in the next aisle.