Here's one of those things they don't tell you about at those parenting classes you sign up for when you're pregnant and think your unborn child is going to be this clean, pink, cooing thing.
The minute they come forth (and for some of us, the minutes before they comes forth) you will find yourself the unfortunate frequent resident of SHITTYSNOTTYPUKEYVILLE, and you will, on a regular basis, find yourself cleaning your child's noxious bodily fluids out of your brand new carpet, the stiching on your (also brand new) leather sofas, the covers of books, your hair, the wheels of favorite Thomas the Tank Engines, baseboards, door frames, sheets, and pillowcases.
And I seem to have had the misfortune of becoming a permanent resident of this horrible horrible place.
My friend Miranda observed once that bodily fluid stories are rapidly becoming a sad reoccuring theme in my life. Well, here's one more...
Sam and I had a miserable stomach bug over the weekend that forced me to scrap my long-anticipated Halloween cookout on Saturday and my girl's afternoon out viewing This is It on Sunday. Instead, I had my head in a bucket wishing for death and Tom spent the weekend alternating between Gatorade runs and hosing down Sam's bedding in the driveway. Fun was had by all.
Sam seemed better by Sunday afternoon, and I kept him home from school Monday where he was so well I thought he'd been possessed by a maurading pirate. Tuesday he went to school and successfully convinced his teacher he was near death, but once he got home, he was totally fine. A 10+ on the pirate pain-in-the-ass scale. (I have a $30-child-broke-a-library-DVD-bill to prove it.)But last night he picked at dinner, and didn't eat any breakfast. Or lunch--even though it was a Fuddruckers hotdog and he normally wolfs those down. He fell asleep in the car on the ride home and I put him straight to bed when we got home.
And then, two hours later, he woke up from his nap and there was literally a river of diarrhea in his diaper, that flooded his jeans legs, filled up his socks, and made a puddle on the (of course) brand new carpet in his bedroom. Which John tried to walk through. Wailing baby goes back in crib. Wailing toddler goes in shower. Wailing mommy goes and gets the cleaning supplies and spends a half an hour scrubbing nasty festering ick from between the carpet fibers. I get wailing baby out of crib. I get not-so-wailing toddler from the shower. I pajama him. And tell him he's sick and needs to go to bed. And fits are pitched and he says he wants to play, so I give him an anti-diarrheal and *I* go to bed (to watch Oprah and embroider).
My butt had literally just made contact with the mattress when I hear *cough cough* "Mommy!" *splat*
And now there is a gigantic orange chunky spot in the hallway on the *damn! damn!* brand new carpet! Followed by another orange spot and another and another and I just stand there debating my options. Could I kill myself with Calgon? Would it take me away enough from the vomit encrusted toddler standing in the hall, the bright puddles of I-don't-even-want-to-go-there on my once-new-looking carpet, and the baby re-enacting Singing in the Rain in the middle of it? Good God! There are puke splatters all over the walls. Can I just stand in the street and let someone hit me with their car? It would be infinitely preferable to what I'm about to have to do...
Seriously? Have I not paid my dues yet?