Yesterday I'm watching a lovely dance recital performed by children at my daughters' school. O, my 2nd grader, sits on my lap and a friend of hers, another 2nd grader, sits in the seat next to me.
I comment that one of the children on the stage looks just like a child in their class. A boy in their class named C.
Friend: Ew. I hate C.
O: Me too.
Me: Why? (I'm thinking they are going to say that he threatens to kiss them behind the jungle gym at school or something.)
Friend: Because he smells.
O: His teeth are rotten.
Friend: He never brushes his teeth and his breath smells.
O: Yeah, his teeth are all yellow. You can tell he never brushes his teeth.
Me: (in perfect textbook fashion) That's not nice. Be nice. And be quiet. We're supposed to be watching.
Oh my stars! What to do with this information? I would be mortified beyond belief if my child were being called The Smelly Kid. Not that she ever would be, of course, because she's always perfectly well-groomed for school. Perfectly. Ahem.
Do you remember The Smelly Kid at school? Do you remember how the kids would all call him Pig Pen? Do you remember thinking, "Why doesn't his mother bathe him?"
Oh, this poor child. Oh, his poor mother. The poor, smelly, kid.