Tuesday, February 26, 2013

I’m Mommy. I’m disgusting.

Remember that episode of Friends where Monica and Chandler are trying to keep their relationship a secret and Joey is the only one who knows? So when Rachel finds men’s underwear in the apartment, Joey takes the blame and says, “I’m Joey. I’m disgusting.” And then when naked photos of Monica are found at Joey and Chandler’s, Joey falls on the sword again and says, “I’m Joey. I’m disgusting.”

That line pops into my head multiple times a day now that I have a toddler. I find myself doing and tolerating the most revolting things without even flinching because “I’m Mommy. I’m disgusting.”

For example…

I wipe up spilled drips of milk from Quinn’s sippy cup with the toe of my sock because by the time I get a wet rag and come back, he’ll have walked through it in his own socks anyway. Do I go change my socks afterward? No. That seems like a lot of work. And a lot of laundry. So I walk around with dried, sour milk on the bottom of my socks all day. Disgusting.

Sometimes, I get poo on my thumb when I’m changing Q’s diaper, and it doesn’t even phase me. I just clean it off with a wipe, get a pump of hand sanitizer, and then I wash my hands with soap after I’m done changing him. Pre-motherhood, I would’ve lost my ever-loving, germophobic mind if I had touched poo. I would’ve been all POO!! POO!! THERE’S POO ON ME! GET THE BLEACH! CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT! SOMEONE HELP ME! I TOUCHED POO!!!! But now? I look down at the little brown smudge on my thumb and think “Oh, look at that. Poo. Whoops.” And then I just clean it off without missing a beat in “Old MacDonald.” Disgusting.  

The same applies to vomit. When you’re a mom, you get a little on ya, and you don’t freak out. I just think “Of course there’s throw up on my sleeve,” and I go about my day. Disgusting. (However, disclaimer, this nonchalant attitude only applies to my child’s poo and vomit. If I anyone else’s poo or vomit ever gets on me, you can fully expect me to lose my ever-loving germophobic mind.)

Quinn likes to share my cereal, and I let him since I’m just stoked he wants to eat something. After his breakfast is over, I sit in the kitchen floor with my bowl of Vanilla Almond Special K, and Q toddles up for a bite. He holds his head over my bowl while I spoon a couple flakes into his mouth, and the milk drips out of his mouth and right back into my bowl. Whatever. I eat it anyway. Think that’s gross? A couple weeks ago when Q was sick, he wiped his runny nose with his hand, then stuck his fingers into my cereal to pull out a flake. Yep. I kept eating it. Not the first time I’ve had cereal and snot for breakfast, and it won’t be the last. Disgusting.

Quinn loves to be tickled. His favorite is when I bury my face in his belly or ribs and tickle him with my nose. He laughs so hard no sound comes out, and when he catches his breath, he says, “Again?” Then he wants to do it to me. He says, “Tickle Mommy?” and then rubs his nose all over my belly. The problem with that his nose is usually runny, or at least it has been the last few weeks, which means I then have snot smeared across my shirt. I half-heartedly try to wipe it off (sometimes with the sleeve of said shirt), but I don’t go change. Again, it’s too much laundry and he’s just going to do it again in an hour anyway. So my outfit is rarely complete without a healthy helping of boogers on it somewhere. Disgusting.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any grosser, last week when we were on the way to San Francisco with my mom, Quinn called from the back seat “I found a crumb!” Lord only knows what kind of old, stale food crumb he discovered in that car seat, so I asked him not to eat it. My mom reached around to take it from him, and he said “I give it to Damma.” My mom inspected the mysterious crumb closely and casually reported that it was not a crumb. Yep, Quinn had picked his nose and handed out his first booger. Although my mom hasn’t had a toddler of her own in over twenty years, she found it quite funny. Don’t worry, Q made sure I got a booger, too, later that day. Disgusting.

Hopefully these revelations don’t make you think less of me. Although, if you’re a mom, I doubt any of them shocked you. If you’re not a mom, stop looking at me like that. I’m Mommy. I’m disgusting.