It’s Friday! Hooray! I am SO excited to… be sick. Deflating balloon sound.
7 Quick Takes here with Jen at Conversiondiary.
Tonsilitis. S’what I’ve got. I’ve never had’er before. I took a gander at my throat a few nights ago and, mmm! Charming.
As a child, getting sick would be a vacation of movies, books, and Sprite, while laying in bed for a few days, while Mom brought me soup, meds, and a cool washcloth for my head.
Now I have kids.
This is one of the reasons why being a mom is the hardest and most sanctifying job in the world. A mom is required, even in her sickness, to serve. As my sister cried out to the heavens one day as we were
commiserating delighting in the joys of motherhood over coffee, “Moms do not have the immense pleasure of being sick!”
But, for a cause for sainthood, I’ll wipe another rear-end (or three) while my head throbs.
Bigger picture, there, yawl.
Along with feeling like I’ve been hit by a musician’s tour bus and then run over by the caravan of groupies, we had an out-of-diaper experience, similar to Mandi’s poop excursion earlier this week. Read: THE ULTIMATE CAUSE FOR SAINTHOOD.
There I was, clumsily slicing an apple for my two apparently starving boys (who both polished off pb&js not ten minutes before), and I catch a familiar whiff of soiled diaper.
The weathered mother learns to be able to determine the catastrophic magnitude of this natural disaster simply by the varying degrees and notes of the aroma that impact the olfactory bulb. …perhaps I should be working as un nez in a parfumerie…
I knew it was bad before I even looked at the boy.
The X factor I’m leaving out?
Nothing too bad, I was only wearing a light-sleeping 9 month old across my front in a baby carrier.
As I gingerly laid Sir Poopsalot upon the carpet to face the music -boy, WHAT a symphony-, I realized too late that the poo had defied gravity (as these phenomenons always do), snuck up his back, and was now smashed into the carpet.
Combatting rising anxiety levels and proceeding to scrape the first, most dangerous layer of poop from my toddler’s rear so that I could carry him to the bath tub, the slumbering 9 month old snapped awake, throwing his head and arms back, wailing in frustration of being suspended in such a way: his pacifier flung from his mouth and landed in the poopy coated carpet.
Don’t leave that there.
I couldn’t remove Collin from the carrier because wise mommies know: what can go wrong, most absolutely WILL go wrong.
What more tempting than a moist patch of poopy coated carpet to play about? Ooooh! A new texture!
So Collin continued to squirm as I labored to scrub my Poo-year-old.
Rattling tonsillitis breath, sweat dropping from my brow, I single-handedly seized my now clean toddler from the tub, patted him dry, and released him so that I might tackle cleaning the dirty carpet, baby still wailing in the carrier.
As I’m filling a bowl with hot water, I look up in just enough time to catch a streak of Emmett fully inaugurating himself into the Poo of Fame as he picks up the poopy pacifier and pops it into his mouth.
Collin renewed his wailing-in-my-face efforts.
Does that story top last week’s discovery of Collin proudly standing at the toilet (in which my oldest had just relieved himself), happily sucking on some pee-soaked toilet paper?
I don’t know, I’ll let you decide.
What in the world were you DOING, Carolyn, while your baby was feeding himself from the toilet bowl?
Heck, I don’t know. Maybe trying to not let the house sink further into a state of derelict,
maybe feed the other two human food inhalers, or bark at them to GET OFF THE TABLE, or maybe just simply feed myself…
OR, maybe I was hacking away on my oldest pair of jeans in desperate attempts to acquire a pair of long-enough shorts. I don’t like the feeling of my legs -which are as likely to be freshly shaved as the laundry in my house is to be folded- chafing together throughout the day.
I saw Princess Sister-in-law last weekend and she let me try on her designer light-wash, slightly torn (I guess that’s coming back?), long boyfriend shorts and I WANTED THEM NOW.
But I’m a nappy-haired momma whose children roll in the deep, while I hack away at high school grade jeans. Jealous of Princess Sis-in-law, much? Nah. … .. .
They turned out well, no? –really, someone tell me, “CAROLYN. STOP.” if necessary. I’m blind (as you’ll see in Take 7).
For the record: the poopy/pee incidents occurred separately from my fashion designing attempt. DO note, however, the unfolded laundry in the back. That’s as close to my legs as you’re getting, so don’t ask.
Fine Linen and Purple featured a blog post written by moi. My vey first guest post!
I literally felt like a 13 year old. After I submitted it, I kept having thoughts like:
“Why did you just contribute to a fashion-y blog?!
You are not a fashion-anything.
My writing style is too spastic for a blog like this.
I’m too abrasive.
It’s not going to get posted.
Your writing style confuses people.
Maybe no one gets Frenchy humor.
Maybe no one likes having to work out how to read dialect.
Your writing style is elementary.
Why are you even writing right now?
And then I had a 6th grade flashback: My very first school dance. As the oldest sibling in the house and one of the oldest cousins in the family, I’d had no prior instruction on how to dance. No cool, older sister or cousin who I could mimic.
So insert me, in my Kohl’s overalls, carefully chosen shiny black shirt underneath and brown clogs: a 6th grader, dancing in a way that I thought was acceptable to everyone else, bewildered by the macarena, hoping to get asked by my crush to SLOW dance along to a Backstreet Boys ballad and—- “CAROLYN. stop. STOP. IT.”
My best friend had grabbed my hands (which were doing something similar to Seinfield’s Elaine dance), and she was staring me in the face most seriously.
CAROLYN. STOP IT. STOP blogging.
Then it got posted. At 9pm.
And the next morning, a new, different post was up already.
WHY I NO BE FAMOUS FASHIONISTA FOR MY VERY FIRST, POINT 2 SECOND-LIVED VERY WITTY AND HILARIOUS GUEST POST!?
There you have it. My writing insecurities, la. Though, in all seriousness, it was fun to do! If you’re interested in something that’s a little bristly compared to the other very moving and inspirational contributions, go take a gander. Do pause to read Katie’s entry about accepting the mom body after giving birth. I struggled with my body image from start to… Ehh. Well. I need to work out, some day. Her words are compassionate and so loving. Go. Get thee yonder!
Have a beautiful summer weekend, everyone! Come back and see me in a few days for a quick tuto on DIY coffee face scrub. READ: Flattering photos of me with a beard. Yes.