To My Darling Stinky Son
Son, I love you. I really do. I've loved you since you were a sweet-smelling baby in my arms. I loved you when you were a mischievous toddler, bounding around my house. I loved you when you were learning to write and refusing to eat green beans. And I love you now that you're a taller-than-me, angular, strapping young man.
Here's what I don't love: Son, you stink.
You stink when you come home from school and leave your pukey, vinegar-y socks on my sofa and your rancid, falling-apart shoes in the kitchen. You stink when you come home from bike riding and dump your helmet and pads in the garage (and I love that you wear them, but, yes, they stink, too). You stink when you spend the weekend playing video games instead of, oh, I don't know, showering and brushing your teeth. You stink when I pick you up from hockey practice and you ask if I can give two of your equally stinky friends a ride home (with the windows down, thanksverymuch!). And you stink when you try to cover your teenage, hormone-soaked smelliness with half a can of Axe body spray.
So here's an idea. How about showering three or four times a day? (You can manage to eat giant bowls of cereal that often, so I know you're capable of that kind of routine.) And how about using actual soap when you take those showers? And, here's one: How about you take me up on that offer to buy you new, non-stinky shoes, instead of being so unreasonably devoted to the rotten old pair? And one more thing—when you actually get clean, how about you double up on that deodorant, so maybe we won't end up right back where we started so quickly?
Baby boy of mine, I love you, but I'd love to leave your smells behind.
Your Gagging Mama
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