I’m no longer irritated by the knee-jerk look of distaste from non-parents over the foul reality that is Having Children. A person just can’t appreciate the conscious choice to catch projectile vomit IN YOUR CUPPED HANDS until doing so with a child for whom you feel deep affection.
Likewise, the choice to clean up other. . . Gross Stuff. . . becomes about two things:
- will this cause my children nightmares?
- will the Gross Stuff be so amazing that they bring it in my house so I can see it?
That dead bunny in front of the outside trash can? The decision had already been made to leave Thumper for when JB got home; but then…
Dear Mama Bird: Three times rain washed your nest away before it stayed put long enough for you to lay the eggs. THREE. So I’m sort of blaming you for having to retrieve your drowned baby birds from the top of my rain barrel.
And also– I may never eat chicken again.
A friend of mine recently told me a story that involved a car, vomit, and 21 pounds of baking soda.
I wiped snot off Zach’s face with my bare hand in front of my newly married neighbor. I was a little post-postpartum-y and apparently a lot insane. Two-ish odd years of parenting and I had never before used my hand as kleenex, so I have to attribute that day’s action as a sort of twisted self amusement.
I wonder if neighbor dude realizes why I giggle every time I see him outside?
So you see this other layer to parenting? It’s all Dirty Jobs without the camera. Or Mike Rowe.
All of this got me to thinking today– what if birth control ads were a little more real?