Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Future spouse

Last night, I found my 12-year-old daughter clipping her toenails in bed.

I REPEAT: LAST NIGHT, I FOUND MY 12-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER CLIPPING HER TOENAILS IN BED.

Does anyone else out there think this is disgusting?

I imagine my daughter sleeping upon tiny crescent moons of dried-up toenails and I begin to gag a little. We have hashed the topic of personal hygiene to death (and by “hashing to death” I mean her eyes glazing over as I convey the necessity of things like, oh, trimming one’s toenails over a garbage can in the bathroom), but she doesn’t seem to get it.

In general, I try to stay calm when my children baffle me, because they are at the age where they just look at me witheringly and say things like, “Chill out, Mom.” I was sort of composed when I found my daughter clipping her toenails in bed, but then I became not-composed:

Composed: “Could you please relocate that particular activity to the bathroom, like immediately?” [No exclamation points, no judgment. But then...I started to envision my daughter clipping her toenails in bed as a 20-year-old, and a switch was flipped.]

Not-composed: “But seriously, don’t you care that you’re going to have toenails in your sheets?” [Voice rising, becoming shrill.] “What are you going to do when you go to college someday? You can’t clip your toenails in bed in your dorm room! Your roommate will think you are gross! Moreover, what are you going to do when you are married? Your future spouse is going to wonder why your mom never taught you about hygiene!”

My daughter responded with a shrug. “I don’t want to get married, anyway,” she said.

Regardless. This concept of a future spouse has hijacked my brain. Suddenly, all I’m thinking about is the innocent people who one day, after the honeymoon ends, will be required to suffer through my kids’ indifference to personal cleanliness. My son, for example, refuses to wear socks with his tennis shoes these days, leading to feet that smell like parmesan cheese gone bad. “His poor future spouse,” I say, with a sympathetic shake of my head. Then there’s the fact that neither of my daughters will shower or brush their teeth unless reminded (read: implored) by me no less than five times. “Run while you can, future spouses,” I grimace. “Run while you can.”

Yes, I know all about “natural consequences” and the importance of letting my children face the logical and often unpleasant results that come from, say, not changing one’s underwear for a few days. But for me, this is much easier said than done. Because it’s admitting that I can’t stick them in the bathtub and soap them up like I used to when they were babies. Now, I just hold my breath (literally and figuratively) and hope that they will figure it out. But if they don’t, I stand in solidarity with you, future spouses: I will be the best mother-in-law ever, because if you find anything nasty in your bed, you can come crash in my guest bedroom. I swear it will be toenail-free.