I caught poop in my hand the other day. Seriously. Green. Liquid. Poop. IN MY HAND, PEOPLE.
Like, I was mid-diaper-change-and-poo-squirted-out-INMYHAND. Gah. I mean… SERIOUSLY, what am I supposed to do with that?! Welp. Apparently scrub your hand raw, and go on about your day.
This motherhood business is a dirty job y’all. We have so many bodily fluids going on here, I feel like I need to ask guests to wear gloves. And maybe a Hazmat suit. Three boys inhabit my house and it. is. dirty. And not like messy. Like, crusty, boogery, bodily fluid dirty.
I mean, I know I signed up for this dirt. And because I signed up for it, and because I adore these little chaps, I am supposed to be okay with drinking out of my water jug after one of them has just deposited backwashed cracker bits into my otherwise untarnished beverage. I know I am supposed to let them snot all over my face and never want to wash it off… letting it crustify on my upper lip after a smooch from one of my sons. I know that I am not supposed to gag as I retrieve turds that have floated to the depths of the bathtub and partially smooshed into the bottom. And I am definitely not supposed to want to banish the hand smudges on my windows. And then the spit… well, I actually do just let the spit lie where it falls. And I am now used to wiping surprise pee streams from my face post-diaper changes. But some of this, I cannot stand for. These little dudes that we are raising are beasts. Cute beasts. Lovable beasts. And the-best-freakin’-beasts-since-sliced-bread. The friendly type of beasts who poop in your hand.
They are, people. No joke. And I am just not sure I will ever stop dry heaving after a not-wanting-to-poop-on-the-potty three year old’s post-breakfast diaper bomb. Or get used to humans depositing fecal matter onto my person.
The babe is realllllly not helping matters. He makes a very suspicious, curious brand of poo. It is currently green. As if he just mowed the grass with his mouth. And looks more like it should have flooded out of his nose, rather than his bummaroo. And when a recent tummy bug hit, Sir Squirts-A-Lot left his mark on everything. This has resulted in poop up the back of as many as a couple dozen outfits. In the car seat. On his crib sheets. On the carpet, in several rooms. On our big kid comforter {what better way to accessorize the pink Sharpie that still adorns the fabric from Barrett’s past transgressions}. And, on at least one occasion in the last week, directly into my hand. It’s basically amazing.
Add to the poo, snot, and such, the absurd volume of regurgitated bosom juice that I wear on any given day, and you’re sure to find me rockin’ a fine mixture of parenting potpourri. In fact, maybe I’ll mix it all together and market it as a great melange of the scents of motherhood. Hmmm…
I used to be a certified nursing assistant. For real. I worked in both a nursing home and a hospital. I emptied Jackson-Pratts {the little grenade things}. I held emesis basins. I performed peri care. But that experience had nothin’ on being in the trenches of motherhood; where bodily fluids are freely distributed and farts are seriously child’s play.
But really, there’s no way out of this beastly business. You gotta have bleach, vinegar, and Dawn, at the ready. And leave your gag reflex behind. Because when you have little loves, stuff’s just bound to get rocked. And hand smudges, I have come around to. The cracker water, if I close my eyes, I can pretend it doesn’t exist. And spit, well, we’re basically inseparable. But if, once again, the shit starts to hit the fan, I may call you for a hand. Because while it’s a dirty job, I suppose somebody has got to do it.
