Grossology: Parent edition
A number of character-building experiences await me in the laundry room.
I wish I were kidding.
Usually I adhere to a strict policy about not discussing things scatalogical on this blog. I get enough of that at the dinner table. So do many of you. My overall feeling is that the less said about this stuff, the better.
At the same time, there is comfort in knowing that one's shitty experiences are shared, right?
I should start by saying that this tale isn't nearly as shitty as some. Not by far. This is no story of a long-weekend sponsored by Norwalk. It's not even a story of the morning after the night before at Mandarin.
It's just a tale of the slightly ridiculous and gag-worthy.
Some of you have already heard me complain about being under the weather lately. The sinuses that wouldn't clear got scary, face-swelling, jaw-stiffening and ear-clogging on Friday night. It's been both a godsend and a bummer that this has coincided with my mom's highly anticipated visit from Victoria, since it has meant extra hands to help with the kids and the presence of my OWN real life mother to tell me to take a nap.
Part of the highly-anticipated bit has been a special-introduction dinner. The meet-the-parents kind. Only in this case it's meet-the-parent. Singular. All this to say it's not the kind of dinner you cancel just because you're a little woozy from your antibiotics and you can't hear out of your right ear.
But when he arrived with his own child in tow, special guest had to introduce himself to special grandma because I was in the upstairs bathroom, discovering that my three-year-old had soaked the back of his two layers of T-shirt by semi-falling into the toilet.
"Oh, hi," I said barrelling down the stairs with yucky T-shirts balled up, excusing myself for not being able to touch anyone while I just nipped into the laundry room for a wee second.
Barely two minutes later I was back upstairs, gaining a better appreciation for the extent of the imperfect mounts and dismounts executed by my youngest son, normally fairly competent in this arena. The rest of his clothes were done for. The toilet needed to be scrubbed. The child needed to be bathed.
However else would one begin a dinner party?
With boy's bottom speed-bathed, I returned to the main floor with a second bundle of laundry and a child dressed in only underwear.
Dinner progressed as could be expected, with three children seven and under eating absolutely everything my gourmet-cook mom had prepared and absolutely nobody related to me standing on his chair to better make a point.
Mere seconds after the cookie bribes were dispensed at meal's end and an under-the-weather Cameron had retired to the couch, his little brother exuberantly belly-flopped on him (in an attempt either to either hug him or begin a wrestling match - who can tell with boys?) causing Cam's sniffly, dry nose to bleed. Rather a lot.
Of course in hugging and comforting him, we both got covered in blood. After the bleeding stopped, Cam changed all of his clothes and I changed my sweater, trudging back downstairs with a miffed but mostly recovered big brother and a third bundle of laundry.
"Okay, well.... that's done!" I chirped, turning to some task at the kitchen counter.
"I hate to tell you," said my mom, "but your neck has, um, a big smear of blood."
A quick check in the bathroom mirror revealed that I was indeed sporting a bit of a zombie look. The other dinner party hosts would be SO jealous when they heard about this!
It was a successful dinner, though, despite the unexpected presence of some body fluids. A little blood and stuff doesn't really faze any veteran parent - am I right?
So I shouldn't have been fazed when, two days later, my young potty procrastinator missed the toilet, fouling the white bath mat in the grossest of ways, seemingly at the very instant that I removed the bunny from his cage so I could clean it (not my favourite job), an act that caused our rabbit friend to pee on the bottom-bunk quilt in protest.
Could it be that in the interim between whisking away the yucky bath mat and wiping human bottom, my pet had gone who-knew-he-could-pee-that-much crazy on the formerly adorable quilt? Yessiree.
That's what I'm talking about people. It's no afternoon in the trauma room, but there times when I can't even believe so many kinds of gross can occur in the space of five minutes.
And I don't even own a dog.
Got a similar story of your own? Please share it in the comments. Just not while I'm eating lunch, okay?