Two posts? Blame it on the HVAC guy. He’s taking forever. I submit that most bloggers are simply waiting for repairmen to arrive.
Being a parent is occasionally quite disgusting. This morning’s bus stop backpack pummeling death match between my usually-not-that-annoying children resulted in a bonk to Brodie’s nose. Two minutes until bus arrival, and my son looks like a tiny trauma patient (while the little one shirked into the shrubs submitting a steady stream of “sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…”). With no Puffs to be found in any of our pockets or zippered compartments, I let my darling son blow his bloody, runny nose into my sweatshirt. Repeatedly. Until the flow stopped and the bus arrived. As a parent, at some point, you’re going to find yourself wearing blood and boogers. (And you might even forget, and chat up the neighbors wearing your defiled athletic-wear.) Being a parent involves Gross Things.
I’m certain many of you have your own tales of ick, especially with flu season not quite wrapping up in these parts. Teddy’s stomach bug coincided with an awesome sushi feast last weekend. “Hey, there’s my clam!” the little patient exclaimed, after he spewed everywhere except the designated HazMat area I had prepared. Although small people often feel instantly fabulous after a good purge, this excrement identification game had Mommy dry heaving her own expletives at the chum-stained carpet. Blech.
I have no idea why the toilet is an elusive target, or why all of our iThings are covered in a greasy film, or why Brodie’s hockey bag smells like that. But I do know that despite lots and lots and lots of wonderful things about little boys, they’re kind of revolting. Last night Brodie showed all of the signs of imminent hurling, and I consoled him commode-side as he suddenly switched gears and unleashed the evil humors from the other end. Luckily this was one of the times when his aim was good, but little boys with sore bellies want Mommy’s company. So we’re privy to these charming moments in the privy. An honor, I’m sure.
Last year, when I was on immunologic lockdown, Teddy got sick. The projectile kind of sick that involved all 147 of his stuffed animals. Bernie insisted that I keep my distance as he and A-Ma did the midnight sheet swap, jammie change, and mountains of laundry. This was, actually, a bit of a perk regarding chemotherapy, although at the time I would have happily de-chunked the blankets if it meant I wasn’t bald. A year later, I can care for my bloodied, oozing, vomiting boys… and even three inches of hair is plenty to collect a delightful souvenir of such proximal parenting. Yuck. But it’s a good thing to know that my little boys are no longer scared to blow their noses and vomit clams all over me. That’s a beautiful kind of gross.
My apologies if this whole thing has you groping for Purell. But there is actually great love in these nauseating moments. What’s the most repellent thing you’ve done in the name of Parenting?