About two weeks ago we put away the step stool which was in front of the boys’ bathroom sink.

It seemed a logical decision. While the stepstool’s original purpose was to help The Squid and The DragonMonkey wash their hands, they were only using it for evil.

We figured it was easier for us to lift them up a couple times a day to wash their hands than to constantly supervise their every movement whenever they disappeared around the corner. 

We thought it was a good plan.

Yeah… uh, no. 

It wasn’t. 

For the past week, several times a day, The Squid has been running up to me and boasting about the fact he has clean hands.

“Hey, Ma!  I clean hands!  I  clean hands!” 

And you know what? He was right.  He did have clean hands…. which should have clued me in that something was wrong.   The Squid is, without equal, the filthiest child I’ve ever met. 

Here is a picture of him I took at 9:05 in the morning a few days ago.  This picture was taken less than 10 minutes after I took him out of the shower:

In retrospect, I should have known.

I should has known there was a creepy reason for his hands to be clean, and I should have asked him why he felt it was necessary to keep mentioning it to me. 

Alas, I didn’t figure it out until today.

Today.

Today, when I rounded the corner…. and then stopped dead as I saw The Squid leaning over into the toilet, scrubbing his hands industriously.

And that’s when I realized it.

He wasn’t forgetting a verb in his sentence.  He hadn’t been saying “I have clean hands” all those times.

He meant exactly what it sounded like – he had just finished “cleaning” his hands.

Only the last I checked, scrubbing your hands in toilet water several times a day…

in the same toilet your older brother uses…

the same older brother who consistently refuses to flush after he pees….

Well….

Well, that’s the exact opposite of clean.

“I clean hands!  Ma, look!  I clean hands!”

When I think of all the times I touched his hand this past week, or shared a bag of popcorn with him, or all the other million ways I touched those hands….

Ignorance was bliss.

It was an unsanitary, peaceful bliss.

What the lady behind me in line at the grocery store said: “Wow, that is a lot of boys!” 

What I thought:  Wow.  I never thought about it, but it does kind of look like all four of them are mine.  I mean, the other two boys I’m babysitting are 2 and 4 years old, just like mine, but they’re so much taller that it makes them seem like they’re older. 

Oh, yeah.  She said, “That’s a lot of boys!” 

I should say something back. 

Geez.  Life with four kids.  That would be crazy.  It would have to be on purpose, wouldn’t it?  I mean, you can’t have four “mistakes” in a row, can you?  Sure, I didn’t get pregnant on purpose with my two, but that’s still kind of understandable.  Two mistakes is sort of reasonable, although it’s still a little embarrassing.  Four mistakes?  Heck, once you even hit three “oops” pregnancies, let alone four, that’s not mistakes, that’s just being irresponsible.  

Shoot.  She’s still looking at me, and I haven’t answered.  What do I say?  This is getting awkward.  Just say something, Becky!

What I replied:  Oh, they’re not all mine.  Four kids?  I’m not that irresponsible!

What my cashier said, in a very cold voice:   I have four children.

And now you all know why I’ll be driving to the next town over to do my grocery shopping from now on.