In the last few weeks, I've found my tweezers in increasingly strange places around the house. These places include, but are not limited to, Mark's bookcase, Mark's bed, the dining room, the living room, and littered about the bathroom. I don't remove tweezers from the bathroom, so I knew the culprit leaving them out.
But Mark seemed genuinely surprised when I asked about the tweezers.
"I'm not using them," he immediately replied.
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm not taking them out, so that just leaves you."
"I haven't used them," he repeated, and my mom radar cranked a bit higher. Something not right, it said. I stared at him intensely, which made him nervous, and prompted another denial.
"Why would I use them?" he asked nervously, refusing to make eye contact.
"I don't know," I said, growing increasingly more suspicious. "That's what I'm trying to find out."
There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. I finally broke it by reminding Mark that I knew he was using the tweezers, and the longer he lied about it, the madder I would get.
"I'm not mad that you used them," I said. "But I'm getting super mad that you're lying straight to my face."
He finally looked at me, and realized all hell was about to break loose. He sighed and looked like he was about to cry, which worried me more than a little.
"What the hell are you using my tweezers for?" I asked.
He sniffled, and finally admitted it. "Toe jam," he said glumly, and I involuntarily gagged.
"TOE JAM?!?" I exploded. "You used my tweezers for your TOE JAM!" My eyes started watering, and the gagging increased (I have a sensitive stomach, and imagining toe jam on my tweezers was not helping).
"I didn't know how else to get rid of it!" he explained, as I raced past him toward the bathroom.
"You know what gets rid of toe jam?" I thundered. "Soap, water and a washcloth! Geez...I put those things near my FACE." And the gagging resumed...
My sister-in-law Mary was hysterical when I told her the story. "Ewwww! You'll have to sanitize them!" she said, but I just shook my head.
"I already threw them all out, " I said. "There's not enough sanitizer in the world to ever make me use those again."
"Well, at least it's your own kid," she said. "It's easier to take when it's your own kid."
I shook my head again. "No, not easier," I told her. "I don't care if it is my own kid...he's a gross, grubby kid using my tweezers to clean his toe jam! It doesn't make it any less disgusting!"
She laughed. And, eventually, so did I (though I still gag a little recalling it now).
It's a reminder on just how specific you have to be with kids, and how you pretty much have to lock up anything you don't EVER want them to touch (that list is growing). I tried to think of a rule to institute so this would never happen again, but I was at a loss. I could say don't ever use my tweezers ever again, but that's not specific enough for Mark--he would certainly justify using something else--my comb? my toothbrush?--under the defense that I did not specifically say he couldn't touch those.
So when I calmed down enough to be semi-rational, I simply said, "You are not to touch anything that ever touches my body. I am not going to name all those things, but you are to think hard about it from now on. If there's even the most remote chance it may touch my body--ever!--you are not to touch it, or clean yourself or anything else with it. You are not to even look at it. Are. We. Clear?"
He nodded his sad little head, then plopped himself dramatically into bed. He rolled over toward the wall, snuffled, and pulled the covers over his head.
"You are not the victim here!" I shouted, turning off his bedroom light, and stomping out of his room.
But Mark seemed genuinely surprised when I asked about the tweezers.
"I'm not using them," he immediately replied.
"Of course you are," I said. "I'm not taking them out, so that just leaves you."
"I haven't used them," he repeated, and my mom radar cranked a bit higher. Something not right, it said. I stared at him intensely, which made him nervous, and prompted another denial.
"Why would I use them?" he asked nervously, refusing to make eye contact.
"I don't know," I said, growing increasingly more suspicious. "That's what I'm trying to find out."
There was another moment of uncomfortable silence. I finally broke it by reminding Mark that I knew he was using the tweezers, and the longer he lied about it, the madder I would get.
"I'm not mad that you used them," I said. "But I'm getting super mad that you're lying straight to my face."
He finally looked at me, and realized all hell was about to break loose. He sighed and looked like he was about to cry, which worried me more than a little.
"What the hell are you using my tweezers for?" I asked.
He sniffled, and finally admitted it. "Toe jam," he said glumly, and I involuntarily gagged.
"TOE JAM?!?" I exploded. "You used my tweezers for your TOE JAM!" My eyes started watering, and the gagging increased (I have a sensitive stomach, and imagining toe jam on my tweezers was not helping).
"I didn't know how else to get rid of it!" he explained, as I raced past him toward the bathroom.
"You know what gets rid of toe jam?" I thundered. "Soap, water and a washcloth! Geez...I put those things near my FACE." And the gagging resumed...
My sister-in-law Mary was hysterical when I told her the story. "Ewwww! You'll have to sanitize them!" she said, but I just shook my head.
"I already threw them all out, " I said. "There's not enough sanitizer in the world to ever make me use those again."
"Well, at least it's your own kid," she said. "It's easier to take when it's your own kid."
I shook my head again. "No, not easier," I told her. "I don't care if it is my own kid...he's a gross, grubby kid using my tweezers to clean his toe jam! It doesn't make it any less disgusting!"
She laughed. And, eventually, so did I (though I still gag a little recalling it now).
It's a reminder on just how specific you have to be with kids, and how you pretty much have to lock up anything you don't EVER want them to touch (that list is growing). I tried to think of a rule to institute so this would never happen again, but I was at a loss. I could say don't ever use my tweezers ever again, but that's not specific enough for Mark--he would certainly justify using something else--my comb? my toothbrush?--under the defense that I did not specifically say he couldn't touch those.
So when I calmed down enough to be semi-rational, I simply said, "You are not to touch anything that ever touches my body. I am not going to name all those things, but you are to think hard about it from now on. If there's even the most remote chance it may touch my body--ever!--you are not to touch it, or clean yourself or anything else with it. You are not to even look at it. Are. We. Clear?"
He nodded his sad little head, then plopped himself dramatically into bed. He rolled over toward the wall, snuffled, and pulled the covers over his head.
"You are not the victim here!" I shouted, turning off his bedroom light, and stomping out of his room.
Sigh...I'm not sure I, or my grooming tools (or even my son, for that matter!) will survive my grubby's son's childhood.
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