What I am about to tell you is shocking and disturbing. Well, probably more disturbing than shocking. It will also probably prove embarrassing for one of my sons several years from now when he stumbles upon the vast collection of my blog posts/ramblings floating in cyberspace collecting virtual dust some day.
No matter how high my son's level of horror is at the discovery that his old man wrote about his most vulnerable and private moments on a very public forum (I'll assure him hardly anyone ever read it), it will not come close to the level of horror that his mother and I skyrocketed to when we saw the disturbing thing in question.
During my wife's attempt at a sweeping overhaul cleaning of our home, she decided to begin with our boys' bedroom. Once elbow deep in dusty action figures and assorted lost game board pieces, she eventually reached the wall our sons' bunk beds are up against. She had climbed onto one of the beds, removed the sheets, displaced an army of stuffed animals which the son in question most likely completely forgot existed and, there, an old nemesis that we thought had long been defeated reared its ugly, multi-textured head again. My son's booger collection.
My wife found herself face to face with what must have been nearly a year's worth of collected production. Literally, her face was right there, such that I insisted she go take a shower before I would go near her because her hair probably brushed up against it.
About a year ago, I wrote about the last time we had inadvertently unearthed such a disturbing display. Apparently, I had repressed the memory, but my wife insisted that I had written about it and I discovered the previous post here.
Thankfully, no public displays of snartwork (my term for snot art, as mentioned in the previous post I just linked to) had emerged, just these gems of clumpy green that had been secretly tucked away in the shadowy recesses near my son's bed.
So, calmly and I'm sure holding back her gag reflex, my wife cleaned them off the wall. I stood and coached, telling her she needed to get a fingernail beneath them and even offered to retrieve the paint scraper from my tool box. But she handled it like a champ with just a scrub brush and some elbow grease. She didn't even call my son out on it immediately and instead favored a talk planned with him later to save him embarrassment.
I, of course, promised no such thing.
I just wonder if he's going to climb in bed tonight and be quietly distressed when he sees all his hard work has been destroyed. Maybe while my wife was cleaning it he even sensed a great disturbance as if millions of boogers cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.
Then again, he's a resilient little guy. He'll probably just start fresh.