Motherhood is a filthy job

I really wanted to name this post, "Motherhood is a filthy job, or: Why children are disgusting and hospitals should send parents home with hazmat suits" but that is a super long title and directly demonstrates why I try to have my boss write the headlines for my press releases whenever possible.

I'm sure everyone who has ever even heard of children knows that they are yucky, yucky creatures. They crap in their pants and drool so much that bibs had to be invented. Also, many tiny babies are fed formula. Have you ever smelled formula? More importantly, have you ever smelled a formula burp? Mothereffing EW.

Allow me to expound upon how disgusting my daughter in particular is. Be warned, this is not for the faint of heart. I would rank it as a "medium" on the nasty scale, but then again, my nasty scale has dramatically toughened up since having children. So my nasty scale may not = your nasty scale.

So this past Saturday, I had taken the kids to Target with my mom. As most good mothers do, I had bribed my children into pleasant behavior while in the parking lot before entering the store, telling them that they would get slushies if they were good. They followed through on their end of the bargain, and both got red slushies.

We arrived home and Charlie went down for her nap. Sweet, sweet nap time. Lucas and I were downstairs having quiet time, and Charlie started whining in her crib. I ignored her for a good 10 minutes, hoping she would pipe down so I could finally doze on the couch. She refused to cease, so I went up to her room.

As soon as I opened the door, the smell hit me in the face. Puke. Nasty, disgusting puke. Charlie was so upset that she puked, and my sympathy for her overrode my gag reflex. The poor thing had puked all over her crib, herself, her stuffed animals and her pillow, but she had tried to clean it up. By covering it with a blanket. She was crying uncontrollably, so I lifted her out and cuddled her to me, instantly covering my shirt with the puke that had gotten on her clothes. Which was bright red. Thanks, Target slushie. I could curse you and your super-staining powers, but instead I'll be grateful that your artificial coloring made the puke easy to find on every.freaking.thing. inside the damn crib.

Lucky for me, Dan was sleeping since he was right in the middle of his 7-day swing at work. Yay, I got to clean up both baby AND puke-covered materials! Go me! So I put her in the bath and washed her up, then gathered up the soiled crib contents. Thankfully, God smiled upon me and I found not one but TWO clean crib sheets. I was able to take everything away to be properly washed except for Charlie's "Ellie", her stuffed elephant that she refuses to do just about anything without. So I had to settle for washing Ellie down with a soapy washcloth and sending her back to bed with Charlie, wet and still smelling of puke while the other stuffed animals were sent to the washing machine.

But then, Sunday dawned. Ah, Mother's Day. A day where moms everywhere are lauded and appreciated. A day upon which I was awakened at 6 a.m. by the sounds of my poor Charlie crying. So very uncharacteristic of her. Normally, she wakes up and just starts calling for me, Dan, Lucas, the dog, my mom, my dad, or my in-laws until someone gives up on trying to sleep through it and goes to free her from her plush prison.

I went to her room, bracing myself for the smell of puke to roundhouse kick me in the face as I opened the door, but mercifully...no puke. I went to get her out of her crib and she told me she was going to throw up. I raced her to the bathroom but....can you guess?

That's right, we didn't make it. I made it to her door before she expertly threw up DOWN the INSIDE of my tank top. And do you know what I did? Well, first I dry heaved a little bit. (I'm only human.) Then I looked down at the floor and actually felt a wave of relief that only a tiny bit had gotten on our still-newish carpet.

Let me take a moment for that to sink in for you. I felt RELIEF that my saggy boobs and the weight of my daughter's body against my fat mom belly caught most of the vomit. Inside my shirt. Against my skin. Chunky. (Sorry, but you know what they say - misery loves company.)

I sighed and retreated to the bathroom to take a very unwelcome 6 a.m. shower with my daughter who despises showers. I defiantly put my hair up into a bun, even though I knew some puke had gotten in it (just a little bit! Stop judging me.). I washed our bodies, put a diaper on my nasty daughter, and went back to bed in the vain hopes that she would go back to sleep. She didn't, but she did give me the courtesy of laying still  long enough for me to *just* doze off, then sit hurriedly upright and strike fear in my heart that she was going to puke again.

Dan came home from work at 8:15 and found me semi-passed out next to both my children (oh yeah, Lucas sleeps in bed with me when Dan works. hooray family bed. hooray.). He wished me a Happy Mother's Day, which was infinitely more cheerful than the "Happy FREAKING Mother's Day" I had wished myself just seconds after I was puked upon.

I couldn't understand it. Aside from the puking, Charlie seemed fine! No other symptoms. She was even eating normally. I debated staying home from church, but decided against it since we were meeting my parents and my grandparents for Mother's Day Mass. (It wasn't a grand Mother's Day for me, but I'm making my husband take me to Bar Louie for dinner on Friday. And I did have the pleasure of seeing my grandma, my own mom and my mother-in-law, whom I all love dearly.)

Monday came and went without incident. But then...today. I bet you think you know where this is going. And you are half-right. But I bet you don't know the other half.

We decided to go out for dinner. If you are my friend on FB, you are probably already judging me because I committed to cooking dinner every weeknight for 2 weeks. This lasted all of yesterday. In my defense, my husband literally jumped in the car as soon as I pulled up at the house with the kids after work and told me "DRIVE". So we headed for Applebee's.

We got the 2 for $20 meal, and kids eat free on Tuesdays. (I like to go into painstaking detail to draw out the inevitable when I tell stories.) We got an appetizer with the deal and ordered mozzarella sticks. Charlie can't seem to eat them without choking. So she choked on one. She spit them out in my hand. No harm, no foul.

Until she started coughing a minute later. I lamely held up my hand to her mouth, thinking she had more cheese stick to spit out. And she did, if by cheese stick you mean puke.

She puked in my hand. And all over my pants and shirt, as well as her pants and shirt, my side of the table and the booth we were sitting in. CHUNKS.

And here is where you can see how very indifferent my husband and I have become to ungodly disgusting acts such as these. I looked at my husband as he tried unsuccessfully not to laugh at me, muttered a swear word (I know....I try not to swear in front of my kids, but COME ON. She puked on me IN PUBLIC.) and resignedly got to wiping her up with napkins. After I sopped it all up, I carried her to the bathroom, washed us off as best I could with hand soap and paper towels, then walked back to our booth. There was never any discussion as to whether we would leave the restaurant.

And we just ate our dinner like nothing had ever happened.

And I know what you're thinking - puke on me once, shame on you. Puke on me three times, shame on me. But honestly, she has NO other symptoms. My friend suggested that maybe her belly is upset from nasal drainage, and that makes sense to me. So I don't think it's a crime to carry on life as if she is not sick. I blame her.

Children are DISGUSTING.