Every time a baby has a diaper blowout- a parent gets their wings!
Okay, so maybe that isn’t the saying I’m looking for, and there is no test you have to pass to get your parenting license… because there isn’t one- but there are many times I feel like the first few years of parenthood or so are like pledging a fraternity. You are forced to function on little to no sleep, do disgusting and embarrassing things to appease those “in charge”, everything is sticky and you’re not quite sure why, you get yelled at a lot, bottles are everywhere and even though you didn’t drink out of them, you have to clean them up, and there is one FINAL test to find out if you are really parent material.
Thomas had his moment last night.
I KNOW- we have a 6 year old- and I’m here writing it took this long? Look, peeps, there is no real test (though I would swear we are most definitely hazed) but I do think that there is a certain level of horribly grotesque things one just has to experience before knowing the true horror of parenthood.
For me? It was a constipated baby trying to push out a turd the size of a fucking Buick that needed to be helped along, only to watch his poor little hole turn inside out. OHMYGOD I’d hoped to never have to type that again. Some things you just don’t get over.
It’s not to say that Thomas has never done anything disgusting; oh man has he (that story is in my 2nd book)! BUT- one terrifying tale does not a seasoned parent make. He needed to experience the HORROR OF MY EVERY DAY LIFE, DAMNIT! I am jealous of those who don’t have to deal with the bodily functions of another human multiple times per day. There is no reason I should know how to aim a wiener to pee into the toilet without splashing out- but I do. There is no reason I should know the awkwardness of inspecting a doodle for a stray hair to make sure it doesn’t cut off circulation, or how hard it is to get liquid bowels out from under your nails- BUT I DO. It was Thomas’ turn, damnit!
Okay, so maybe this whole “becoming a true parent” thing is really just my way of saying I just wanted some revenge via the children for all the disgusting nasty and retina-burning things I have had to do; po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.
His turn finally came last night… and it was kinda my fault.
I may have passed my initiation long ago, and I have learned a great many important lessons over my time spent as a stay at home mom, but, well…. some old habits die hard.
Take “tickle wars” for instance, or as they are commonly referred to around here: Gastric Russian Roulette.
I KNOW from experience getting a child worked up after just having eaten can have dire consequences, but I honestly can’t resist a good old fashioned belly laugh, and we had TIME TO KILL, people. Time that is usually filled with brattiness and complaining and not wanting to take a bath or go to bed or clean up or anything else. It is the evil hour after dinner, and the kids were begging me to chase and tickle them. Actually they were begging me NOT to chase and tickle them, which meant the opposite because kids are dumb- and they were so happy and laughing and not whining that I couldn’t resist.
Now, I don’t chase a damn soul, so I basically just sat in the kitchen hiding behind the doorway while the boys approached me and then ran away screaming. Piece of cake. This went on for about 5 minutes when Parker started coughing. Not that coughing is unusual; during the winter months, he never STOPS coughing- but then ALL of the commotion from two squealing children stopped and I heard Thomas’ voice.
“Are you gonna throw up?”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH STOP! DON’T MOVE! STOP MOVING!”
I got up and ran into the living room, only to see Thomas catching Parker’s chunky barf with his bare hands. OH MY DEAR SWEET HOME-BIRTHED BABY JESUS, WHY?!
Take a moment. I don’t blame you. It was fucking DISGUSTING.
Babies might puke all the time- but there is a HUGE difference between baby spit-up and full on partially digested eggplant parmesan sub puke.
Welcome to Parenthood, Thomas. You’re one of us now.
You know you’ve made it when you start running TOWARD a child barfing rather than away.
I thought that maybe I should stop and clap for this momentous occasion, but being that his hands were full of vom, it quickly dawned on me that something like that might not be the best or kindest of ideas. So instead, I spent the next 30 minutes picking tiny chunks of carrot out of the carpet and yelling at the dogs for trying to eat it. Sure, it would have helped, but then maybe I would have barfed and I don’t need any more initiation rituals in life, thank you very much.
We played Gastric Russian Roulette, and we lost. Moral of the story? I’m actually not sure there is one. Be careful when tickling children? Be prepared to be hazed for years? Don’t bother asking where that sticky spot came from? Learn from past missteps or you’ll be catching a steaming handful of eggplant barf?
OH! I know! Be well aware that as a parent, you will have MANY stories like this to tell. Or attempt to bleach from your memory.
*Editor’s note: If you have not been through an obstacle course of horrifying and disgusting things as a parent, you should really keep that to yourself. *grumbles*
Every. Single. Time. pic.twitter.com/aAAWWjdrN3
I'm either "I HAVE 3 FRIES LEFT DON'T TOUCH MY PLATE!" or "Please take this so I can't eat any more of it!" There is no in-between.
Dear people writing articles on ways to get siblings to get along, I'll save you the time. The answer is "Don't let them play together"
Please stop Complimenting my kids’ “Good” Behavior goo.gl/fb/rwfojS
Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.