When a skunk dies, does it automatically release all of its bodily fluids like the dead bodies on CSI? Do its anal glands or whatever just “pffffft” like the air brakes on a truck? I’m just wondering, you know, because I think Pepe Le Pew crawled under my house and took his leave. I woke up the other night at 3:00 with my eyes burning and my nose feeling thoroughly assaulted. It’s been three days and my house still smells like Woodstock. Caleb went trucking, and when he changed into fresh undies this morning, he said his suitcase still reeked of skunk, and he was 1000 miles away. It doesn’t smell like skunk outside, but the second I cross my threshold, my nostrils start to twerking. It’s not the baby, it’s not my cooking (cabbage is on Caleb’s actual sh*t list), and it’s definitely not the upstairs neighbor’s essential oils making my dog’s gasotransmitters hyper-activate again.
Martha Stewart once told me that boiling lemon slices on the stove can make my house smell nice, but she ain’t got no idea the kinds of problems I got, because: 1) This is the wild west, ain’t nobody got citrus wedges. You’re just lucky if you can see your poker pardner through your water glass. And 2) I’ve got 7 kids in this house, all of whom make it their personal mission every day to make mommy puke into whoever’s boot happens to be closest. Hmm, I’m getting word from my editor that I actually only have 4 kids. I’m pretty sure it’s 7. Feels like 7. Do you think I can try Martha Stewart’s lemon trick with tomato slices instead, given my particular predicament? I’ll throw some fried green tomatoes on the griddle and call it a day. I’m noseblind to it by now anyway.
My bible study group is currently reading Boundaries by Drs. Cloud and Townsend. It’s one of my favorite masochistic soul-searching books for sure, designed to dig deep and clear away the hefty rubble we carry around in the recesses of our hearts. I’m usually all about that, but this being my second time through this particular material, I can’t focus. My brain reverts to its baser self, firing adolescent thoughts that ricochet around my head and make me chuckle at inappropriate moments (Sorry, Lynnette).
Drs. Cloud and Townsend start by listing the kinds of things that are boundaries: fences, walls, the word “no,” etc. All I can think is that a skunk has infringed upon all my domestic borders, and I feel damn violated. Not only does it reside under my floorboards, it’s desecrated the most sacred and vital of all maternal boundaries: my beauty sleep. I’m unsure if the noxious rodent smell is circulating through the heating vents (an unfortunate thing to happen, as it’s currently -5 degrees outside), or if it’s just taken up snug residence amongst the rug fibers. It’s definitely worked its way into my hair, though, so I’m just doing my best to avoid attracting the attention of any and all law enforcement. Then again, if I get arrested, these 7 kids become somebody else’s damn problem for a while, so I’m not 100% against being hauled to the pokey for smelling like a pot peddler. Seems like I really should figure out what the f*#@ is going on in my crawlspace.
The good doctors who wrote the Boundaries book also mention that skin is an important boundary, keeping good things in and bad things out. The first time I went through this study, I felt a deep and profound empathy for people who have been physically violated. This time, all I could think about was uterine prolapse. I’ve seen too many cows and cats whose vaginas apparently didn’t get the memo about skin being a boundary. I really thought I was a compassionate person, but apparently I’m just a psychopath who’s obsessed with cooter catastrophes.
After I sufficiently exhausted all thoughts of skunks and Herefords with their baby bladders hangin’ out, I started to think more about my own limits. For moms, boundary violations happen on an hourly basis going all the way back to the day you peed on a stick. From the very beginning, you’re doing things that are way out of your comfort zone– I mean, who is comfortable urinating on something you’re holding in your own hand (something you actually paid good money for!)? I get what Drs. Cloud and Townsend are going for, but the whole “skin is a boundary” thing sorta goes out the window when you have another human being living between your pancreas and your pooty pucker.
The truth is, babies destroy boundaries. People are out there telling high school kids that sex is bad, but that’s rubbish. I’m a true believer in arming them with the facts: Sex is spectacular, but unfortunately it leads to never having personal space ever again. Oh, you think you’ll never get tired of Bad Boy Bobby’s boob-grazing? Just wait ‘till Bobby Jr. hasn’t let go of your nipples for 72 hours and you’re just trying to get dinner on the table. Also, here’s a PSA for all you sweet young thangs out there: pregnancy makes you grow whiskers in unnatural places and gives you butt blisters that pop when you poop. The next time things get hot and heavy in the back of a hoop-dee, zip it up, buttercup. Do it for me. Do it for all of us who wish we could have kept our heinies hemorrhoid-free for just a little while longer.
This brings me to another bulldozed boundary: the bathroom door. Most people are really shy poopers. They don’t want an audience, and they definitely don’t want to watch anyone else do it. Once you have kids, though, nothing is sacred anymore – not even pooping. Your labor and delivery nurse’s primary concern, after making sure your uterus hasn’t fallen on the floor and gotten linty, is apparently whether or not you’ve had a good B.M. Before you leave the hospital with your new bundle of joy, you’ll be asked at least 1576 times (in front of God and everybody) if you’ve left them a potty parting gift. Something about making sure your boundaryless babe hasn’t shattered your small intestine. By the time my kids were up and running, I had given up on shutting the bathroom door. If I tried to give myself just one hallowed moment in the loo, it was always interrupted by the unholy screams of my toddlers and their grimy hands creeping under the door. Not to worry, though, the bathroom door swings both ways – I’ve also had the great privilege of watching each and every one of my kids fire off their little fart pebbles. Over and over and over again. One of my boys (he shall remain nameless) even provides extra entertainment while he poops. My man-child has the marvelous misfortune of being unable to poop unless he’s simultaneously brandishing his most vigorous jazz hands. When we do prayer requests at the end of our bible study, I’ve considering adding this to the list. Ladies, please pray that my son learns to poop without flailing his arms about like a retarded albatross. So far, though, I’ve managed to keep from violating all their boundaries by bringing this up. I’ll continue to suffer in silence, worrying that one day my little boy will be arrested in an airport bathroom for trying to flag down a 14-year-old Ukrainian prostitute. The law will consider him one of those toilet terrorists, but I’ll know the truth: he was just trying desperately to release the beast. All this to say, if you’re not into poop, don’t have sex. I’m just saying, these are the facts.
Who knew boundaries could be such an expansive subject? We’re only on chapter one, and can’t you tell? I’m really getting a lot from this bible study.
P.S. If anyone has any idea how to rid my house of the violent fragrance of Hitler’s a$$hole, please leave note.
P.P.S. To Drs. Cloud and Townsend: please feel free to use this as the official forward material for the next revised edition of Boundaries.
Molly's Dirt In The Skirt 