I dream sometimes, of conditioned, flowing locks and gleaming hardwood and shiny children, but that is just a dream. (I wouldn’t unscruff my husband. I like him that way.) Actually, it’s not even a dream, more like a fantasy that I entertain momentarily when I see pictures of other people’s unscruffiness, or when unscruffies come over and have to
I mean, it’s not gross – we’re not usually dirty. We’re all just a bit, well, unkempt. Mostly that is because I am supposed to keep myself and my things and my children kempt, and I do a lousy job. I am a lousy kempter. I just don’t always see the things that less unkempt people see, like natty baby dreads forming on my child’s head, or a loose string hanging off of my shirt, and by time I do eventually see those things, I have run out of time to deal with them. And then I forget about them again, because I am easily
Ew! Somebody in the next cubicle just farted!
To be fair though, this is not a result of having children. I’ve always been kind of scruffy, waaaaay preferring second-hand jeans (these days we call it vintage, but really, that’s just a less scruffy way of saying ‘used.’) and dready boys to nice pants and a haircut, and I have never trusted the pristine. I like things with a little bit of history, a little wear and tear – a story to tell.
Finding out that there is a (really) big milk stain placed oh-so-strategically on my
A little too scruffy, even for me.