Spit, Splatter, Splatter

Spit, Splatter, Splatter

I am her. I am she. She who I did not want to be.

If I sound a little like Dr. Seuss, it’s because my three-year-old Joshua has just discovered the good Doctor and we’ve been reading him A LOT lately.

But back to me. Today was a messy one for me in the annals of Motherhood. Today I was that mom, the one I hate to be, the one who has CRAP all over her, who is just covered in messy, sloppy, dirty stuff.

I made it to noon pretty clean, but we had lunch at Wendy’s after a play date with Joshua’s friend Conner (and my friend Megan) and I made the mistake of letting Joshua drink his chocolate milk straight out of the little bottle it comes in. Sure enough, while he was doing his usual playing-instead-of-eating trick, he knocked the open bottle off of the table and on to the floor, where it splattered ALL over my right leg and foot. Since I was wearing my Lands End Trellos (think Crocs with square holes instead of round ones), my entire foot was soaked in chocolate milk! It was lovely to say the least. Four hundred napkins and a couple of baby wipes later, my foot and shoe were fairly clean but my capri pants were still pretty milky. Which reminds me, I reallllly need to put those in the washer!

The next act of splatter to occur was my own klutzy fault. I was heating up my daughter Sophia’s baby food carrots, and I dropped the jar lid on the floor, splattering carrots all over my poor right foot again. Once again the holes in my Trellos subjected my toes to said flying food product. Carrots a-squishing between my toes. Yummy!

Five minutes later as I was feeding the carrots to Sophie when she spit a mouthful back out at me, projectile-style. This time it was my face and chest that got splattered. I didn’t really mind, though, as this meant I could skip my nightly application of bronzing lotion.

As I got Sophie ready for bed, I pondered my general grossness and thought to myself, “At least I don’t have anyone else’s bodily fluids on me.” That was something to be thankful for!

Then I laid her on my lap to nurse. She smiled and sneezed all over my face. Mark “bodily fluids” off the list. I wiped my face off and cried “Sophie!!!” with much consternation. She smiled angelically at me. I unhooked my nursing bra. She sneezed all over my face again.

I guess I can also skip my nightly moisturizer application.

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Not so long ago…

Not so long ago (relatively speaking), Jenny and I could have normal conversations with each other. We could chat for an hour at a time and not be interrupted once. We could email each other 148 times a day (when we worked in the same office, I might add) about what we bought at Target the night before or what we were doing for the weekend. We were your standard working twenty-somethings.

And then it all changed.

We got knocked up.

Not at the same time, exactly (our scheme to take over the world didn’t pan out precisely as planned), but within eight weeks of each other.

Needless to say, our conversations were suddenly laden with “My boobs are leaking” and “I just threw up in the shower” and the like.

Our “babies” are three years old now. Jenny has even added another baby to the roster. And though from time to time we look back wistfully on the days when we could, you know, go to the movies, one thing is clear…

We didn’t know what we were missing.

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