Memoir Mishmash: The truth about boys and girls

Memoir Mishmash: Blog posts in which Kat Harris spices up scenes from her own life to hone her skills (or lack thereof) as a storyteller.

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Most people hear things like, "Congratulations!" when they bring a new baby home from the hospital.

Not me. When I brought my youngest daughter home, I became subject to an endless chorus of, "Now you have two girls. I don't envy you when they get to junior high."

On the outside, I usually responded to such disparaging remarks with subtle agreements. Inside, however, I found myself doing a mental eye roll and thinking, "Please. They're six years apart. They won't even be in junior high at the same time."

Plus, I was well aware that bringing up boys isn't a walk in the park either.

I watched my oldest sister pop three of them out one after another. Bing. Bang. Boom. Like hot dogs from der weiner schlinger at a Husker game. Less than four years separated her oldest and youngest sons. And with each baby she had, her hair seemed to lose a little more pigment.

I spent the summer between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college working as a nanny for my three nephews. They made me earn every penny of every dollar in my weekly paycheck, too.

Marty, the youngest, had a special knack for raising my dander. (I am, after all, a Kat.)

After one particular session of swimming lessons at the local YMCA, I ushered him back into the ladies locker room to get dressed. His little feet slip-slapped against the floor as the senior aquacise class began suiting up for their thrice-weekly workout.

I guess modesty isn't a top priority for a five-year-old boy. He didn't flinch at the idea of yanking off his skivvies in front of the herd of grayhairs making their way to the pool.

It bothered me, though. As his wet trunks sploiked against the tile floor, his name escaped my lips with a gasp.

"What?" he asked, with a devilish innoncence only a small Italian boy could pull off.

I scolded him with a look and then turned my attention to our belongings inside the locker. From the corner of my eye, I could see him, standing there in the only outfit God gave him, his skinny knees knocking and his bottom lip quivering as he waited for me to hand him his clothes.

And then, from his wet, naked cheeks ripped the loudest thundercloud of gas I'd ever heard from a butt his size.

I whipped around in time to see one of the grayhairs emerge from the next row of lockers. A mixture of shock and disgust had rearranged the wrinkles on her face.

My mouth moved to beg an, "Excuse me," for my nephew. But before I could, an evil grin settled on Marty's face and he admonished me with an: "Aunt Kathy, that's gross."

Don't give me sympathy for mothering two girls. Instead, send it to my sister. Don't forget to include a few bucks for her hairdresser.