We just weren't gross growing up.  We didn't eat mud pies, we didn't roll around in the mud and I only vaguely remember jumping in and out of a good clean puddle or two once in a while. 

Boys are just nasty.

I walked into Ethan's room this morning and notice a slight funk.  Hum.  It's a small room.  And lately he has been sharing it with his father in the middle of the night when he awakens screaming like a three-headed monster is poking his eyes out with a spoon.  Or maybe it's because it's the middle of the night and someone may have taken all of his trains and only left him with 876,432 toys to play with.  Who knows?  All I know is that I actually heard him climbing up his father at 3 am this morning.   But back to the funk.  Is it The Boy, his father, or a lovely combination thereof?  It really isn't fair because I am supersensory girl these days and I can smell someone passing gas (you know who you are) from 30 miles away.  I just gave up this morning and threw the entire room into the washer. 

But it isn't just the room.  It's everything The Boy does.  There is your average, everyday running your hands along ithe inside of every wheel well in the parking lot, with emphasis on SUV's that have been off-roading, but honorable mentions for any vehicle that has just had an alignment involving lots of lubricant.  Then there was propelling himself onto the fresh roaster chickens in the supermarket the other day so he could fondle the leaky chicken liver containers stacked nicely behind the roasters.  It's funny the things you never notice until you have a toddler.  They sell chicken livers in leaky containers right behind the roaster chickens.  Which are eye level for every toddler in America and well within the gymnastic capacity of any and all almost 2 year olds.  Who knew?

But he pulled out the creme de la creme last night.  After stealing MY DRINK for the 9 millionth time, he proceeded to methodically dump his chicken marsala into the cup filled with gatorade. 

Then he drank it.  Lemon-lime gatorade with chicken and mushrooms sauteed in a lovely marsala wine. 

He drank it until it was gone.  When he finished it off, he yelled "MOMMY'S DRINK."

Oh, buddy, I think that is all yours.