Before I begin, if you are one of those people who say, "Potty talk is only for the bathrooms," and your children faithfully follow that rule, stop reading. If you tell your children to save some words for the bathroom, but regularly hear them at the dinner table anyway, read on.
It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words. I say that some pictures are better left untaken. I can't get rid of the picture in my mind of yesterday's disaster.
As a parent, there are a few words you never want to hear. They go something like this: "Mom, I think I need to throw up" followed by proof that yes, you definitely needed to. And the proof never ends up in the toilet. Or sometimes they just come to inform you in the middle of the night that they threw up, and of course it's everywhere.
Yesterday, it was this, "Mom, I need to go poo. And it's diarhea. And it's all over the toilet. Is that okay?" Being the mother of five, and knowing what happens shortly after this declaration if there is no immediate interfence, I dropped the laundry I was folding and sprinted for the bathroom.
Max was pointing to the toilet. He didn't need to point. It was the first thing I saw. My very first thought was, "I'm the Mom." Not the "I'm the Mom" when you find out from your son's teacher that he has been helping a handicapped child at school. More like, "Oh hell, I'm the Mom." And then I thought, "I'm the Mom." Again, more like, "Oh hell, I'm the Mom and I'm going to have to clean this up."
And then I said, "Don't touch anything!"
And then Maddie walked in and immediately walked out, yelling, "Am I going to have to clean that up on Saturday when I have to do my chores?"
Honestly, I may not be the Queen of Clean, but it was Monday. Did she really think I was going to leave that there for five days? What past experience is she drawing from? All the times she barfed and I waited five days to clean it up?
Max tried to not touch anything, but too late. I stripped him down, throwing his underwear away (if Steve can buy $2.50 water at football games, I can use underwear disposably), and carried him through the house to the tub (he did his damage in the 1/2 bath). I turned the water on and yelled for Cara to bring me a cup. I asked her for a clean cup, but she carried it to me like it was contaminated. I could show her contaminated if she wanted to see it. I got Max cleaned up and then headed for the bathroom. I was really dreading it.
Walked by all the kids watching tv. Wouldn't want to interrupt their downtime. When I made it to the bathroom, there was Steve. Just finishing up. Truly he redeemed himself from the night before when he let me do the french kissing discussion solo.
Why this story? Well, people like my declared baby hungry sister need to know exactly what they are getting into. The older they get, the bigger the messes. And others need to know exactly why I could delegate George's first day of kindergarten to Steve while I left for Hawaii. Or why Steve and I relish every moment we get away and why we always have a trip planned on the horizon. Truly, parenting is not just diapers and nightime feedings. The biggest messes happen when there is no container around to catch them.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
FINALLY!!! I have been waiting all my life for you to get a blog. You are truely one of the best writers. I love to hear all the adventures of your life. They make me feel more normal, and I only hope to be in your place in 3-4years. We really need to have lunch again. Love you bunches!!
Sounds like you're trying to convince me and any other poor, innocent, unknowing future mothers out there not to have kids.
That's sick. When you said there was Steve, just finishing up, I thought you meant he had just used the bathroom without noticing the mess. Max's odd phrasing reminds me of my favorite quote from Sam that I probably repeat too often, so I'll repeat it again: (holding up his finger to show me and Steve) "What's this? It's not poo. It came from my butt. I think it's cavities." Best quote ever, with a close second being Steve's response: "Go show your mom."
Sharon, you're brave, and my hat's off to Steve for coming through like a champ. I'll always remember when Jane was a newborn and she first (yes, first) crapped on my hand. It was two in the morning and I screamed for Ella like a coward in Viet Nam. Parenting is a good cure for OCD, or at least a good way to convert it to schizophrenia.
Post a Comment