There are few things on this planet that are quite so gross as kids can be. Yes yes, we all know. They are precious darlings to be treasured and all that BS. But let’s face it. They are walking, crawling, writhing  snot encrusted biological weapons of, excremental disgust. Not only do they happily bask in their personal cloud of dust strewn, showerless pods of pure horrible, but they seem to gleefully spread their own disgust to everything and everyone they encounter. Just. Gross.

 

Obviously this kicks off at infancy, but those are the times that are easily forgiven and actively celebrated. A giant poop and diaper blow-out from an infant can equate to a better sleep for all and a happier kid. At that poop123stage, anything that would normally be met with revulsion is just an adorable sign of a baby with all parts functioning. It’s when they get older and increasingly aware, that you truly recognize the levels of scatalogical sociopathy. From “The World is My Tissue” mentality to the “Why Flush A Toilet Clogging Masterpiece Like This??” showmanship, my children leave me with a sense of bafflement as to why they choose to live the way they do.

 

Every day, I have the same arguments about showers and every day, they are desperately needed. Not just for them, but for society! The vapor of stink that can surround them is almost palpable. I’d equate them at times to a local sewage treatment plant, but that would be patently unfair to sewage treatment plants. Even those facilities have some semblance of order! With kids it’s active chaos. Roaming snot bombs of utter pandemonium, undermining all cleaning efforts you’ve attempted while simultaneously spreading their own personal plague to anything and everything they touch.

 

Moving beyond general cleanliness, I cannot fathom why anyone would use their own forearm as a tissue. Perhaps they are just trying to create an impenetrable shell around themselves. Protecting the soft interior of skin with a crusted, armor of ghastly atrociousness. What is it they are protecting themselves from is anyone’s guess. Hugs maybe? Societal acceptance?? Whatever it is, it’s always on the verge of working. When I encounter that on children coming toward me that are not my own, I struggle to resist the urge to flee in a panic, deploying countermeasure flares behind me to ensure they don’t follow.
I often wonder aloud what quirk of evolution allowed us to continue as a species. By most logic, we should have perished the first time a Cro-Magnon toddler wiped his or her oozing nose across the Cro-Magnon couch in some far away cave. We should have collectively walked away from our offspring every time they swore they didn’t have to use the bathroom, and then promptly shat in their car seats. But alas, we are programmed to forge ahead and continue providing for them. Even as they slime, secrete and egest their way through their gross little childhood of nose-turning feculence.