My Dirty Little Secret

My kids aren’t habitually messy. Their rooms aren’t pigstys. They put away games and books when they’re done with them. But sit them down for meals, and the neanderthal emerges from deep inside. Utensils get ignored. Napkins get ripped to shreds. Hand-to-mouth feeding occurs, as if they fear a shrieking gargoyle will jump from the hall closet and snatch away morsels.

My 10-year-old son Matt underwent a growth spurt during the pandemic. Over the years, he has amassed a number of camp t-shirts — distributed approximately two sizes too large — that are now just the right size. However, he required a new assortment of shorts for summer camp and weekends.

One recent Saturday, he transformed his outfit (shirt from a since-rejected camp and grey shorts) into an adventure in wash day forensics. Heavy highway traffic on a journey to the beach meant a lunch stop at Wendy’s for burgers. Within 15 minutes, his t-shirt was smeared with ketchup, plus a smidgen of au juis for added flavor.

After we arrived at grandma’s house, that outfit was quickly discarded for pool wear. A few hours later, he reclothed as we made a dinner plan. My sons are enthusiastic about a longstanding local taco joint in the town near my mother’s summer place. Each season means a stop for a greasy, delicious meal. They opted to take advantage of low resistance from both tired adults (myself…