Dirty Little Secret

They tell you that motherhood profoundly changes you. They tell you that you’ve never imagined love that deep. They tell you that you will become more selfless than you’d ever imagined. They tell you that your life will never be the same.

And you realize it quickly, as you stare into that little face. As you function on two hours of sleep. As you read the same story for the 1,000th time. As you try to give your friend advice on what to wear to a formal event and realize you haven’t been to one yourself since 2002. As you physically miss your children when they spend the night at grandma’s.

What they don’t tell you is how your capacity for grossness will change. Sure, they mention dirty diapers. But I was a nanny. I baby-sat. Dirty diapers hadn’t fazed me in the first place. But it wasn’t until I was a parent until I realized that dirty diapers are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Ironflower had gastric reflux for the first 8 months of her life. She threw up everywhere, all the time. We told each friend she threw up on that could call themselves aunt or uncle. And I, I whose stomach had retched so easily at just the thought of vomit, was totally calm. In fact, I became rather scientific as I cleaned up each round of vomit – what color would it be this time? Hot Guy was even more impressive, though. Once, as he held her over his head, she threw up. Into his open mouth. The fact that he didn’t run screaming out the front door then has always made me a bit complacent about our family.

Next came Lovebug. He seemed so clean, comparatively speaking. Rarely threw up. Had lots of little poops instead of big explosive ones. Wouldn’t eat baby food, so he didn’t really eat solid food until he was old enough to keep it in his mouth. I should have known that he’d get back at me eventually. He STILL won’t poop on the potty, you know. He waits until bedtime when he’s wearing his training pants and then goes for it (Although the other day he went up to his room in the afternoon, changed into training pants, pooped, then changed back into his underwear. Quite a kid, my Lovebug.). Then takes off the training pants and drops them on the floor. The carpeted floor of his room. So now I’ve been an expert at scrubbing shit.

Now the bodily functions of my children don’t bother me at all. I don’t even have a moment of nausea, or repulsion. Which is why – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, except that I’m kinda hoping that someone else will admit to doing the same thing – I watched as ChunkyMonkey pooped this morning. He’s just started having solid ones. Thinking he was done, I started to change him. But he had more and I watched it come out. I was kinda fascinated. I have never seen that much poop come out of a baby. Seriously, it was impressive.

If anyone had told me five years ago that I would just sit there and watch my baby’s poop come out, I would have thrown a drink at them.

So yeah, there’s deep love and fierce protectiveness that comes along with motherhood. And, apparently, also an ability to appreciate a big poop.

Happy Mother’s Day!

*Emphasis on the gross.

I should have known that things were going too well. We had a good morning. Increasingly rare these days, what with all the being cooped up in the house. I took Ironflower and Lovebug to a lovely birthday party. We got home well after nap/quiet time usually starts, so we resolved to just have them “rest” for half an hour or so.

Hot Guy went to the grocery store. I secured Chunkymonkey with my nanny (the cradle swing) and went up to free the children. Ironflower bounced out of her room as Lovebug threw open to the door to his.

“Mom, I went poop on the potty!” exclaimed my son.

We keep a potty in his room. It’s the only one he uses, and that’s only when no one is watching. And only pee.

Until today.

He had pooped ON the potty, but not quite in it. In fact, he’d pooped ALL OVER the potty, the carpet and a diaper. I tried not to freak out. . .but all I could see was SHIT EVERYWHERE. So I told the kids to go downstairs out of the contaminated zone. I began cleaning.

Hot Guy arrived a few minutes later. I yelled down and asked him to wash Lovebug’s hands. Just to be on the safe side. Because surely I would have noticed if he had especially messy hands.

Then Hot Guy said, “Oh MY GOD, look at your hands boy! Ironflower, what else has he touched?”
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Shit, I thought. In every way possible. I began prowling the room, checking for other things that I had missed. Because any idiot who forgot to check her son’s hands has got to have missed other stuff, right?

Like the fact there were poops lined up in one of his Matchbox car bins.

Which at least explained why his hands were dirty, if nothing else.

We are now down a Matchbox car bin.