Of Chicken Turds and Mohawks

After enjoying the (finally) warm spring weather, the boys came in, dirty like I like ‘em. At first I just thought the junk in Calvin’s hair was straw. He’s always rolling around in some random spot outside. But the stretchy, sticky string coming from his fingers revealed this would be a much messier situation. It was gum. This shouldn’t surprise me. This from the boy who stored a half-eaten apple core in the dusty cup holder of the van. For a week. 

When I asked him how he got gum in his hair, he said, “I was just trying to get it from the chair in the van.” Apparently, he has this thing that he does where he stretches his gum out of his mouth, sticks it to a filthy surface, then eats to said surface inch by stringy inch. Also apparently, he missed his mouth. So, I opened a jar of Jif and spread it on his forehead with a knife. He (and big brother) thought this was a fun new addition to the gum game. I was less than amused. As I worked the gum out, piece by tiny piece, I set some ground rules about gum (which I assumed were assumed, but you know what assuming does...) The first rule, “Keep gum IN YOUR MOUTH!” resulted in this conversation:

C: But then I can’t play that game with Reed!

M: What game?

C: On the trampoline!
M: What game on the trampoline? 

C: Duck, duck, goose.

M: What does that have to do with gum?

C: You say duck, duck, and then when you say goose, you spit out the gum and chase and see who gets there first.

M: Why would you spit your gum out? Are you spitting gum in the yard?!

C: No! On the trampoline.

M: Where does it go?

C: (pantomimes picking up a piece of gum and popping it in his mouth, complete with sound effects, of course. Of these he is king.)

M: Sigh.

I made him go to Dad and explain the mess. First he lied and said he “couldn’t remember” why he had a peanut butter mohawk. After a lecture about “little stupid mistakes” being a lot better than being a liar, his amnesia was cured. He got another lecture about general nastiness. I reminded him of the bird poop we’ve found on the trampoline. Daddy offered to find him a chicken turd if that’s what he liked to chew on. And then he washed his hair twice, endured my sniff check, and went to bed, no doubt dreaming of other turdly endeavors to undertake tomorrow.