We all know as mothers we are required to step up to the plate sometimes.
There are lots of moments throughout the child raising years when we just have to do gross things, things we never in a million years as teenagers thought we'd be willing to do.
If you're a mama, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Things that are just too nasty to mention. I really don't enjoy dwelling on some of my more, well, revolting tasks as a mother of young kids.
I have two things that just really, really gross me out. Forgive me, but I'll have to mention them here or else this blog will be kind of missing the point. But you do need to know that all pictures in this blog are not from the actual event described. I simply could not and was not willing to subject my readers to the horrors I witnessed. You'll see why.
The first thing I really, really hate is vomit. Just looking at that word in print bothers me.
I've gotten better, really, I have, but the presence and sounds and odors associated with sick, vomiting children produces dry heaves in me every single time. I just can't help it. A few times in my early days as a mom, I would have to close my eyes and remind myself of the vows of motherhood that I should never break as I held back my daughter's hair. Abandoning your violently ill child is definitely one of those unbreakable vows.
I'll tell you about the second thing that totally grosses me out in a moment.
So. Picture the scene if you will.
Beautiful bedtime has arrived.
My husband and oldest daughter are still out at ball practice, so I've been flying solo in getting everyone corralled into bunk beds.
I've been up since 4:50AM. I'm kinda beat. Just as I settle onto the couch to see what's on my DVR and catch up on email, I hear the pitter patter of little feet and figured it was this one headed my way: (here she is pictured at a Chinese restaurant attempting to eat her ice cream with chopsticks)
Sure enough, the three-year-old arrives to stand next to me. She's holding her arms at a funny angle and has a distressed look on her face. In the dim light, I can't really see what the problem is, but I soon SMELL what the problem is.
The poor kid had thrown up. EVERY.WHERE.
Her beautiful curls, her neck, the BACK of her pajamas (which is kind of a mystery to me, actually), her favorite blanket (which she named Kissee), and her arms were covered.
Ever seen those commercials of daddies having to change dirty diapers and seen them heaving and gagging? That was pretty much me, folks.
But, knowing I couldn't just leave her in that pitiful state, I helped her back up the stairs and straight to the girls' bathroom for a bath.
It was at that moment I encountered the other thing that just completely, 100% grosses me out. Puts me over the edge.
I know, I know, most people think this is ridiculous. So what? A little dog hair never hurt anybody, right?
First of all, we're not talking just a "little" dog hair. My oldest darling daughter had decided to give her dog a bath earlier that morning, unbeknownst to me.
Apparently there must've been a fire or she had to take cover from a tornado or something equally distressing and sudden, because the bathroom looked like it had been left in a hurry. If I hadn't seen her the rest of the day, I might have thought the rapture had occurred. Why else would someone leave a bathroom in this condition?
The bathtub was literally growing with black dog hair. The floor was covered. About five of my (good!) bath towels were sopping wet and lying on the floor, also covered in dog hair.
This was somewhat of a dilemma. I could not very well bathe my vomit covered child in the hairy tub, and I wasn't about to carry her to another bathroom where she could get even more vomit spread throughout the house.
There was only one thing to do. I stripped her down, left her shivering and pitifully standing in the corner of the hairy bathroom, and retrieved the vacuum cleaner. I literally had to vacuum out that stupid tub and the floor, all while my poor, sick little girl stood there holding her arms out and trying not to spread the nastiness.
And so, dear readers, it was not my personal favorite night of motherhood.
It was, however, good practice in self-restraint. I did not get sick, I did not go berserk at having to vacuum out the tub (this would come later, as I was to find out), and I did not shoot the dog, mainly because he was not home at the time. People have told me my fondness and affection for this animal will grow over time. Still waiting on that one.
The gross factor. Sometimes it's just part of the job, mamas. It's in the fine print.
Part II of this story coming soon...it involves dancing, dogs, vomit, and a teeny tiny hissy fit.