Non-Maternal Instincts

Mommy makeover shows are for the birds.

You know Mike Rowe, the crazy host of Dirty Jobs? Well, I'd like for him to join me for a day.

No, I take that back. Five minutes is all he would need to get some footage.

You see, yesterday, as I was rushing to get my kids out the door, I scooped up Harper and ran upstairs to change her diaper. We quickly bounced back downstairs, and as I made my way over to her car seat, I felt it. And I heard it.

Splat.

She puked. All down my back and all over the floor.

It was typical baby vomit - curdled and stinky.

And here's the best part. I was so far past the point of caring that I grabbed the grungy washcloth from the kitchen sink and haphazardly wiped it up. I didn't even change my shirt. Nor hers. Take that, Mike Rowe!

After my I-don't-care-if-I-smell-like-vom clean-up job, I grabbed my son to put on his shoes, and "Ka-Choo!"

He sneezed all over the front of my shirt, covering me with green snot boogers.

Lovely.

And once again, I grabbed the grungy, baby vomit stained washcloth. I really didn't care.

And this is why mommy makeover shows make me batty. Because they grab these snot-covered, sweatpants-wearing moms from the grocery store and transform them, making them unrecognizable through designer clothes and hair dye. But the reality is that no mother is ever going to look like that on a daily basis. And no mother is going to stop living her vomit-soaked reality because she smacked on some department store grade make-up (seriously, why is make-up sold from behind a counter under lock and key?) No practical mom is going to allow her makeover-show, fancy-expensive outfit to be covered in vomit and snot. Heck no! That's why we wear our grungy sweatpants everyday (that and because we can't fit into anything else, but that's another post).

So Oprah can go on making mommy's look all hot and stuff, but those mommy's are just going to sell those clothes on eBay when they get home. Trust me. If I looked so bad that some t.v. show producer had pity on me and awarded me with a $500 outfit from Nordstrom, I'd swap those overpriced clothes for something that could really make a difference.

A maid.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Desperate.

I was so desperate that I didn't foresee the aftermath.

Of course he was happy, so I accomplished my goal.

Yet the mess and clean-up that followed sent me right back over the edge.

But when two babies are screaming and the dog just puked up a sock, momma will do anything to bring peace.



And let's face it, chocolate is peace.

Non-Maternal Instincts

This is why I pray for a self-cleaning baby.
 

Baby, I don't blame you, chocolate should be smeared madly across the face . . .

. . . hands, arms . . .

. . . legs and body.

Frankly, I'm jealous that I don't give myself the freedom and opportunity to eat chocolate like that more often (if ever). God knows I wear enough of it on my hips, why not make it my elbows and knees while I'm at it.

But the difference between you and me, son, is that I have the ability to clean myself. As for you, well, it is up to my ability to clean you. 

And that is why this chocolate-covered pretzel debacle drives me wonky. 

Not to mention that too-cute-for-words mini Buckeye chair (equipped with a cup holder!), and your brand-spankin' new blue onesie that makes you look more precious than I could have ever imagined. Yes, those things don't clean themselves either.

So one teeny, tiny chocolate-covered pretzel disaster later (thank you, mother, for indulging him), I'm busy at work cleaning baby, baby chair, baby clothes, and myself (because chocolate-covered baby equals chocolate-covered mommy).

It's days like this that I thank God for warm weather and a sturdy hose.

Non-Maternal Instincts

I planned, executed, and celebrated my little man's first birthday. And now I recover. So here's another post from the archives (Oct, 2008). Don't hate me for being lazy.

Yes ma'am, that is corn in my eyebrow.

My little man is eating now, and I mean really eating. Not just sucking or drinking or slurping from a bottle (or boob). No, he is EATING. Eating crackers, puffs, yogurt, fruit, cereal, rice, pasta, veggies, mashed stuff, pureed stuff, chopped stuff, cold stuff, warm stuff, not-quite-hot stuff, and his favorite – nearly-frozen stuff.

Combine that with two fat teeth poking out of his once soft gums resulting in a never-ending string of drool hanging from his lip, and ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a HOT MESS.

Cute, right? Yeah, it was cute, for a second, maybe. Now it’s a nightmare. And my sweet-and-tender, “oh look at the cute baby” mommy voice has turned into a constant drone of, “oh look, more green crusty crud in his hair, and in his ear, and between his toes, and oh look, my couch has speckled cracker crust splattered across it.” I’m covering the house in vinyl.

But the part that really irks me, I mean just takes me to a whole new level of mommy’s-gone-cuckoo, is that my son is not the only one layered in meal bits. Naturally a six-month-old cannot feed himself. No, mommy must feed baby. And baby reaches out and tries to grab mommy with baby’s mushy-crumb-encrusted fingers.


I kid you not, I disrobe every night only to find dried up sweet potatoes and vanilla wafers stuck underneath my bra and in my socks. Only God knows how this baby-food-in-the-undergarments phenomenon occurs, but it never fails that my son manages to cover me and all my 2000 parts in regurgitated snacks (isn’t it the mamma bird that is supposed to do the regurgitating?)

It’s one thing that mommyhood has caused me to revert to wearing elastic-waisted cotton sweatpants and wrinkle-free t-shirts, but must I look schlumpy and dirty? Honestly, on those rare occasions that I manage to leave this pigsty and enter civilization, people must wonder if I wash dishes for a living. Except a dishwasher is probably wearing an apron (good idea) and manages to wash, not soil, themselves.

I, on the other hand, am a walking dog biscuit, and it is a miracle that I have not been eaten alive. But then maybe the remnants of my son’s dinner are even too dingy for the appetite of a stray dog or sewer-dwelling rodent.

Dear God of all things pure and clean,

Why did you decide that babies should first learn to crawl, walk, and talk before they learn to properly feed themselves? I wonder if you realized that those things could come second to a clean and tidy meal experience. And in case you are still contemplating that decision, maybe you could rewire things so that my future children (if I dare) learn to carefully and meticulously feed themselves shortly after, let’s say, month six.

Or, maybe we could work something out similar to what goes on in my oven when it gets all yucky and crusty. Shut the hatch, lock ‘er up, and self-clean she goes! Babies can be self-cleaning, can’t they? My dog is (and thank you very much for that, by the way).

But in the meantime, help me to scrounge up the last particles of my patience so that next time my son flings mushy carrots across the room and it lands in my over-priced-shampooed hair, I grin and say, “eating is fun, isn’t it baby!” rather than beckoning the dog in hopes that he'll clean my son with his coarse yet effective dog tongue.