Me: “What’s wrong, lovie? Why the sad face?”
Mushie: “My belly hurtin’, Hondaddy.”
Me: “Aww baby…I’m sorry.”
Mushie: “Hold me!”
Me: “Come here sweets…uhh, oh, hey…mmph!”
Greaaaaat, a piece went in my mouth.
If there’s anything more gross than noticing baby poop under your fingernail while taking a bite out of your own handcrafted sandwich, it would be tasting someone else’s vomit.
There’s an old saying that goes “Holding a young child is like being forced to juggle balloons filled separately with pee, poo, and puke…while holding a razor blade between your fingers.”
Kids are a molotov cocktail of bodily fluids. Bad things can happen when they throw themselves at you.
I’m starting to believe that this whole parenting thing is one big joke and we’re being recorded and broadcast in an alternate universe for shits and giggles.
I’ve basically seen it all…or at least 98% of it all. (I’m ok with leaving the last 2% to imagination!) And thus far, one carpet steam cleaning, a bath, and a good night’s sleep has all but erased every disaster from the day before. So far…
The warm, fuzzy feeling of hugging my venom-spewing adorable children has been lost. I may be experiencing some mild form of post traumatic stress disorder, because I get flashbacks of upon hearing them hiccup in my arms. But that’s ok, they’re getting too old for hugs anyways…
This is my reward for getting stomach acid in my face and mouth…hooray, parenting.
Me vs. Gavin 