Taco night

Sometime around age eight, boys get funky. They sprout little leg hairs, and they act all squirrelly, and their hygiene becomes highly questionable. Of course, this gets worse by age nine. Moon argues with us about the need for daily showers, and often emerges from the bathroom with a clean body but completely dry hair, necessitating a return trip to wash his head. Despite his resistance, we make the kid wash himself.

His friend, K., is another story. Even more physically mature than a lot of the other boys, K. has reached the point where it seems that he could start considering the use of deodorant. Of course, it's not our place to point this out to him or his parents. So, we just remark on his stinkiness after he leaves. You know, because we're so tactful.

Peanut is not yet versed in the etiquette of only discussing someone's body odor behind their back.

Riding in the car today, on the way home from the movies:

Peanut: What is that smell?
K: What smell?
Peanut: That taco smell. Something smells like tacos.
K: I don't smell it.
Peanut: Is that you, K.? I think you smell like tacos. Ew.

Coincidentally, it's "taco night." I can hardly wait for the smell of seasoned beef to start wafting through the house. Oh, wait, it already is.

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