Last night, as I was tucking my eight year old into bed, I got hit in the face. Not by a fist, or a foot, or the always-lovely headbutt of doom. It was by his armpit.
How is being hit in the face by an armpit physically possible? When the smell is so strong that it causes a a wave of stench to fly out like a bat made of BO and knock you down if you dare get close, that’s how. I expect this kind of full-nasal assault from my ten year old, but my eight year old? Who said this was okay? Who approved early boy-stink? WHO ALLOWED PUBERTY TO ENTER THIS HOUSE BEFORE THE TWEEN YEARS?
I almost feel like I should take part of the blame here. It’s not genes- I certainly didn’t go through early puberty.
The day of the stink bomb was the day my children learned the meaning of the word “queef.”
LOOK, it wasn’t intentional, okay? It’s not like I sat them down and said “oh hey guess what, boys? Vaginas fart.”
It’s just that I have never 100% filtered myself, and at honestly, I get tired of having to hide all the weird lady shit that goes on with me. Hold on… this is totally not coming out right. I wasn’t sitting around on my couch queefing and the kids didn’t over hear it. I wasn’t telling my husband a story about the last time I queefed when I sat down to pee because LET’S BE HONEST THAT KIND OF THING JUST HAPPENS. I truly don’t even know how “queef” came up in conversation, but damnit, they heard it, and damnit- much like the menstrual cycle, it was about time they learned. No more excuses. No more “Oops, had a bloody nose” when the toilet is full of period blood. No more avoiding the word tampon in general conversation because I don’t have to have to go into what it is and what it does. If I’m crampy, I’m not going to pretend to be in a good mood, or that it’s due to the weather or some other dumb bullshit.
It’s exhausting. Queefs happen.
But with the knowledge of queefs comes great responsibility. It comes with a greater understanding, and knowledge… and awkward questions.
Just know that if I ever get in trouble and the police are going through my internet search history and come across “what is a penis fart called?”- this is why. This blog. And so you don’t have to Google it yourselves, the answer is “Peef.” It’s called a Peef. Yes, a Peef is the male version of a Queef. There. That’s something you know now. And it’s something I know now. And it’s something my eight year old knows now. I’m not saying that the sudden knowledge that vaginas can “fart” is what sprouted this many stench to emanate from his pits, but I can’t confirm that it didn’t, either.
Going into this blog, I really thought it was going to be a coming-of-age, “oh my god my kids are starting puberty” type of story… but somewhere along the way it became the cautionary tale of why you should be careful who you queef in front of.
Wait. No. That’s not it.
A queef in the hand is worth two peefs in the bush?
No… definitely not that, either.
What I’m trying to say here is be aware of all the things, because before you know it, you’re explaining what a queef is one second, and being blasted in the face by your kid’s BO the next, and wondering not only how your life got so fucking weird, but how your kids got so fucking old.
Yeah… there we go. We got to the point I thought we were going to make in the first place- we just had to take a detour through some weird shit… which is basically all of parenthood, isn’t it?
@DianeAuten I'm so glad you're enjoying it!
I don't know what I want for dinner, but I can guarantee it's not any of the 14 things my husband will suggest.
@ThisIsAstartes Best worst little shits on the planet.
What's that smell? A lot of pants on fire. pic.twitter.com/bVK0FnJgeB
I'm officially done parenting. Here's how I did it: holdinholden.com/2018/01/im-o…
I’m Officially Finished Parenting. Here’s how I did it goo.gl/fb/TBJQPJ