Musings of a Mother

Today was one of those days, which happens to top off one of those weeks, which is slowly rounding out one of those months. 

New and expecting mothers out there, please take note: we seem to deal with a great deal more bodily fluids than I ever anticipated.  I don't remember ever reading this in the parenting books.

I've hit the trifecta with bodily fluids this week, and all with the same kid.  Earlier this week the two year old fell off a forklift and gashed the back of his head open.  A nice lady at church summed it up perfectly.  "In your house, that sentence doesn't even sound weird at all." Consequently, he and I both had a lovely amount of blood on us. 

Next, I pulled a pull-up off the aforementioned child while he was standing up.  I realized a little too late that the diaper contained a hefty package of poop that fell out of the diaper and was headed for the floor.  My instincts to catch falling objects kicked in thanks to 12 years of being a catcher in softball and next thing I knew, I had a steaming pile of shit in my hand.  I've been having a field day all week with this at my own expense.

Do you have any shit on hand?  No, but I have shit IN my hand.  

Did you get mad - did shit hit the fan?  No, but shit hit my hand.  

You get my drift.  Don't judge.  I get my laughs where I can. 

And finally, today I was on my knees in the bathroom while my little cherub practiced his potty training skills.  Fun fact - did you know that if your child pushes on a fat pad in his pelvic region that he can suddenly change the trajectory of his urine stream more than 90 degrees and cover an unintended target with potty in less than 1.6 seconds?  (Okay, so I'm guessing on the timing.  It was not my biggest priority at the time.  Obviously.) 

As an added bonus, the five year old decided yesterday to start trying out different accents because "I've had this same voice for FOREVER, MOM."  (Insert dramatic eye roll and flopping arms by his sides.)  For the record, he finally decided he could stick it out with his normal voice after robot, pirate, British and redneck accents weren't really cutting it for him. 

This, folks, is why I always look like a hot mess and appear to never have my shit together.  (Sorry, I couldn't resist.) 

My grandma/neighbor loves to tell a story about her daughter surviving raising two kids a few decades ago.  Her dad would always tell her, "Don't worry, things will get better."  One day she turned and looked at her father, put her hands on her hips and said, "Just tell me when things will start to get better!"  That story hit pretty close to home today.  Someday I'll look back on these times and laugh, but not so much today.  Unless it's a shitty joke.  I can't seem to get enough of those.