Wanda Says…Random Thoughts, Fancy Cars, Play-Doh and TMI.

cleaning ladyMy house is a bit of a mess and I keep waiting for someone else in this family to take some initiative and clean it.  Then I remind myself that everyone else is waiting for me to do it because as a stay home mom, that’s my job.  I’m looking at the floors and thinking I need a raise.  Or a glass of wine while I contemplate when I may feel like getting around to some housework.

I’m tired all the time.  I thought once I started working out a lot that I would have all this boundless energy.  All I have is sore muscles, some new muscles,  and constant cravings for caffeine and meat.

10154307_596887757062232_1116757788_n[1]

Every Tuesday and Thursday when I go to the gym, there’s a black, Rolls Royce Wraith in the parking lot.  Seriously.  A freaking Rolls Royce!  Every week I see this car and I think…Really?  Because that’s your casual car?

Would you drive this to the gym?

Bryce has been begging me all day to play with his play-doh.  I hate play-doh.  It took forever to clean up the mess he made yesterday with his play-doh, and I just want it to disappear.  He likes to take several different colors, squish them all together and then shape it into a puddle.  Then he brings it to me and says, “Here’s another pool of vomit, mommy!”  He makes these “pools of vomit” and then expects me to save it and display it on the fireplace mantel.  He gets upset when I try to secretly throw them away.  He notices when they disappear from the mantel.  He doesn’t believe me anymore when I tell him I’m saving them in a special, secret location.  Did I mention that I hate play-doh?

My husband had to fly to Oakland today for a meeting with one of his clients.  He’s in the e-commerce business and he works with a variety of online retailers.   This particular client happens to be a company that makes products exclusively for adults.  *Ahem*  To be more specific, they sell sex toys.  Apparently, during the meeting, the company gave out goodie bags to all the executives.  He texted me a picture of the bag and said, “I can’t wait to go through TSA at the airport.”  He won’t tell me what’s in the bag.  He says it’s a surprise.  I don’t actually care about what’s in the gift bag, but I would give almost anything to watch him go through airport security with that bag.  It was a day trip so he didn’t take luggage with him.  It should make him feel better that everyone from his company got a gift bag, so they all have to go through airport security together, with sex toys in their possession.  (I’m crying laughing just thinking about it!)

10806242_1572206826353329_5670738414475305045_n[1]

Because I won’t put up a picture of a sex toy, its funny, and topically, it’s somewhat relevant.

Have a great weekend!  😉

Wanda Says…On My Son’s Opinion of Green Poop.

shamrockParenting children is so glamorous. If I’m not pulling teeth, wiping bums, or determining the source of crusty residue left on various surfaces, then I’m a scientist/medical doctor in training attempting to help my children decipher their bodily functions and the source of any problems that arise.

I apologize for the gross topic of this post, but I had this conversation with my four year old son this morning, and for a lack of anything more interesting to write about, decided to share the poop story love with all of you.

You’re welcome, world.

This morning I heard Bryce muttering to himself in the bathroom.

Bryce:  Why is my poop green?  What makes green poop?

Me:  Is something wrong?  Do you need help?

Bryce:  Yes.  My poop is green mommy.

(I joined him in the bathroom, and yes, his poop was a shamrock green color.  WTH?)

Bryce:  Why?

Me:  I don’t know, buddy.  Maybe it has something to do with the blue icing you ate last night on the cake.  But it will be ok.  Poop changes color sometimes based on what you eat.

Bryce:  So the blue icing and the chocolate cake made green poop?!

Me:  I’m not sure.

red velvet cupakeBryce:  What does red and green make?

Me:  Probably a brownish-gray color.  Why?

Bryce:  Well, then to turn my poop brown again, I need to eat some Red Velvet cake!  Can you get some of that for me, because we need to fix this!

LOL!  Little boy problems are so fun.  I heard him talking to himself a while later saying, “I never should have eaten that chocolate cake!”   😉

 

Update:  About two hours after I posted this, my family and I were shopping at the local mall, picking up some clothes for the kids.  In the middle of the girls department at Macy’s, I look over and Bryce has his pants down around his ankles, his underwear around his knees, bare-ass, inspecting the inside of his underwear!  He was so worried about the green poop, he said, with big fat tears in his eyes and a sad look on his face, “I had to make sure the green poop didn’t get into my underwear.”   We left the store and got him a Red Velvet cupcake just to ease his worries.  🙂

Wanda Says…Ummmm, I did not order this.

Hello, world.

I’ve been out of the social media/WordPress mix for a little while for a variety of reasons.  I’ve been volunteering to help with a fundraiser at my daughter’s school and between that and the time I’ve been spending recovering from my sessions with my personal trainer, I haven’t had the time or energy to think about anything interesting to share with all of you.

Until today….

Yesterday a package arrived for my daughter.  That’s not necessarily surprising as she sometimes gets small packages from grandparents without warning.  I asked my husband if he ordered anything for her, or if his mother did, and he said he wasn’t expecting anything and hadn’t ordered anything himself.  What was interesting was that the package came from Walmart, and we rarely shop at Walmart.

So I opened it to see what was in the box and if there was a gift message on the packing slip.

Keep in mind this box came addressed to my ten year old daughter.

Here is a picture of the packing slip…

walmart packing slip

WTF?

What a random assortment of items.  Pop tarts, K-Cups, toothpaste and feminine hygiene products.  Really?

I realize this must be a shipping mistake.  How Bryn’s name and address ended up in the Walmart database is curious because we never order anything from them. I went to Walmart’s website and tried to track the order number so I could see who purchased the items, but because my email address didn’t match the order number the website wouldn’t let me in to see anything, which is a good thing as it protects the information of the person who actually did order these products.

Bryn thought it was funny and wanted to examine the contents of the box, and as she was looking through the box she said, “What are Pop Tarts?”

Did you hear that?  Do you know what that means?

In this moment, right now, I feel like a good parent.  I feel like I might have done something right.

Who knew in this moment of random, shipping mistake, box full of assorted grocery store items, that I would find validation of my parenting choices?  My chest swelled a little and I smiled.

My daughter is ten years old and she doesn’t know about Pop Tarts!  As crazy ass Charlie Sheen would say, “I am WINNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Image result for images of charlie sheen

I’m a winner too, Charlie!

 

I grew up on the most processed, non-food imaginable.  Nutrition in the 80’s and 90’s at my house was all about Hamburger Helper, Tuna Helper, Pop Tarts, Cheez-Whiz, Bagel Dogs, Twinkies, and sugar cereals.  The most fruit we ever had in our house was when my mother was making a batch of her famous Sangria.

Now that I’m the parent, I don’t feed my kids that stuff.  My kids have never tasted Cheez-Whiz and they have never had pasta out of a can.  Now, that doesn’t mean that I’m a super-freak about everything they eat.  After all, pizza is their favorite food and they act like the apocalypse is looming if we run out of Eggo pancakes.  But my kids eat real food, and I try to buy organic, whole food as much as possible.

But that is not the point of this post.  The point, my dear friends, is that Walmart has inadvertently made me feel like I might be able, at some point, to claim that ever-elusive Mother of Year award.  I am one step closer thanks to their misprinted shipping labels!

Thank you Walmart!  Thank you, and please understand that I never shop in your store due to the lack of enforceable dress code and tendency to run into ‘The People Of Walmart.’  😉

 

Wanda Says…No Bandits!

kid walking to schoolMy daughter Bryn is ten years old and in the fifth grade.  We live one block from her school.  At the beginning of the school year she begged me to let her walk to school by herself.  She had a convincing argument.  She said, “It’s only a block, mom, and I’m old enough to walk a block by myself.” (To be read with the required level of pre-teen sarcasm and eye rolling).

She’s right, of course.  When I was her age we played outside every day after school, running around the neighborhood, riding our bikes everywhere.  As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, our mom wouldn’t stand in the yard shouting our names until we came running.  She is old enough to walk a block, and farther, by herself.

But life today isn’t the same as when I was her age.  The dangers are real, and I do not trust the general population with the safety of my children. I think most people are genuinely caring and look out for kids in their neighborhoods, but it’s the person late for work that accelerates too quickly down their driveway without watching for school age kids on the sidewalk, and the child predators who look like nice people just wanting to stop and chat for a few seconds that scare the shit out of me.  I feel bad that she isn’t allowed to run the neighborhood like I did at her age, but none of her friends are allowed to do that either.  All of her friend’s parents are just as cautious as I am.

But she’s ten, and she is responsible and knows how to cross a street, watch for traffic, and not talk to strangers.  I can’t choose to hold her back from something that is developmentally appropriate and allows her to grow because it scares me.  So the least I can do to allow her some measure of independence is to let her walk to school by herself.  She loves it.  She feels like such a big girl, and I love seeing that look of satisfaction on her face when she walks in the door after school.

But I hate it.  I hate not being there to watch over and protect her for the four minutes it takes her to walk one block.

I silently stress out every morning when we say good-bye at the front door.  I watch her walk down the driveway, and I don’t stop watching until she rounds the corner and is out of my line of sight.  And then I surreptitiously keep my eye on the clock.  I know that as long as the school doesn’t call here by 9am that she made it safely.  I start watching the clock again at 2:30pm. She’s usually home by 2:40pm, and then I take a deep breath and relax.

This is what I look like when I'm protecting my kids.  For real.

This is what I look like when I’m protecting my kids. For real.

I know this sounds obsessive and crazy.  Especially to a younger person who has never had kids.  But having children changes you.  Having children brings out your protective instincts in a way nothing else can.  I became the mother bear.  I am that dangerous female Grizzly that will rip your throat out if you even think about physically harming one of my children.  And I’m not alone.  Thankfully, I’m in good company with all the other Grizzly mothers at Bryn’s school.  We all agree that allowing our children to walk to school at a certain age is a necessary risk to help them mature, grow and learn to be responsible for themselves and recognize potentially dangerous situations and how to handle them.   They need to know how to apply and use all the advice we’ve given them. “Look both ways before you cross the street, don’t talk to strangers, be aware of who’s around you and if someone approaches you and tries to get you to go with them, you drop your backpack, scream for help and run like hell is chasing you.”  Well, I didn’t give her that last bit of advice in exactly those words, but she got the message.

No Bandits!

So, I let her walk to school.  The first few weeks were the hardest for me.  About three weeks in I was sort of grilling her at the dinner table, trying to be nonchalant and casual about it.  I didn’t want to be up in her face with overly detailed questions, but I wanted to know how it was going.  I was obsessing, and I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I’d hoped because she looked at me and said, “It’s good, mom.  There’s no bandits!”  As she said this, she winked at me in a jaunty way and made finger guns.  LOL!

In that moment she made me laugh out loud with her cheeky sense of humor, eased my fears and reassured me that she truly is a big girl, which broke my heart a little too.  Now every morning when she leaves for school and kisses all of us good-bye, we all say, “No Bandits!”   🙂

Wanda Says…I have a cold, and other stuff.

Hello, world.

This isn’t a real post.  Things have been crazy at my house, so I’m just checking in on Wanda and playing a little catch up.

Two weeks ago my son caught a cold, which he passed on to both me and his sister.  Dan is the only member of our family that has not been sick in the past two weeks.  Both kids seemed to rebound quickly, although they are still experiencing the typical lingering effects of a cold.

I am a different story.  I am a hot mess.

cold germsFor whatever reason, this cold virus hit me much harder than it did the kids.  I can tell that I look as bad as I feel by the way my husband looks at me.  His look says, “I feel so bad for you, but please stay out of my air space.”  My nose is red and chapped.  Skin pale.  Limp hair.  Dead eyes.  You know the drill.  My voice is gravel and my throat hurts because I’ve become a mouth breather.  I’m pretty sure that when I try to sleep I sound like Darth Vader.

Sadly, life doesn’t stop for a cold or my shitty complexion.  Tomorrow I have to teach 30 fifth graders how to make compost in a gardening lesson at my daughter’s school.  And Friday Dan and I are having dinner with his boss.  His boss, who happens to be the CEO of the entire company.  Great.  This dinner has been planned for a month and I can’t cancel.  It doesn’t matter that my nose looks like a neon sign of germs and my pockets are stuffed with used tissues.  Time to break out that tube of face spackle I bought from Sephora and work some magic!

Prior to getting sick, I was already in a funk.  I know I promised to break up with depression this year, but that dirty little liar just won’t take no for an answer.  When I get depressed I get behind on everything, and I have a hard time finding anything I want to write about.  I’ve seen this theme floating around WordPress lately.  It seems a lot of us have been battling with the big D.  Could it be the time of year…like the post-holiday blues, or something?  I don’t know, but I’m trying to spend some time today catching up and reading what’s been going on with everyone else in the world.  That helps.  It always makes me feel better when I connect with others.  🙂

 

Wanda Says…On the subject of Dutch Ovens and growing up with boys.

1335019610129_4651640[1]I have two brothers.

I am the middle child of three and grew up sandwiched between two rowdy, rough and tumble boys.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how growing up with my brothers and the experiences we’ve shared has shaped my personality.  Growing up in a house outnumbered by boys is not an environment where you can afford to be delicate or have a thin skin.  In our household everyone had colorful, strong personalities, and it was very much an emotional and physical battleground for attention and personal space.  There were three of us, so two were always ganging up on one, and being the only girl, I often got the short end of that stick.

As a child I was very gullible and believed everything my older brother told me.  He once told me if I ate the crust of bread I would turn into a werewolf.  I believed him and refused to eat bread crust for several weeks.  He also told me that if I didn’t wear a training bra, my boobs would grow under my arm pits because the bra “trained” my boobs to grow forward.  After a week of refusing to take off my training bra, even in the shower or to sleep, I had to confess to my mother my fears of having arm pit boobs.  She punished my brother for his lies and I could finally sleep without having nightmares of waking up with a deformed chest.  These are two small examples of how my brother liked to dupe or manipulate me, and because of his special training, I like to think as an adult that I’m more savvy when it comes to seeing through people’s bullshit.

Screw you guys.

Screw you guys.

I am desensitized to the smell of man farts and have been since I was seventeen years old.  There are only so many Dutch Ovens a girl can survive until she completely loses her ability to give a shit.  Great, you shit your pants next to my head and threw a blanket over me to trap the smell.  Good for you big boy, can we move on now? But don’t forget to sleep with one eye open.  Of course, I am now married to the one man in the entire world who doesn’t think it’s polite to pass gas in front of anyone.  I believe this is Karma rewarding me for all the fart related suffering I endured as a teenager.  However, I do have a four year old son, and so far he is not following his father’s example in this regard.  But then again, neither is my daughter.

Male nudity doesn’t faze me, at all.  When my brothers were teenagers they became more conscientious about their state of dress around me, but that didn’t stop them from engaging in typical, immature male behavior.  There was enough mooning, bull dogs, flashing, pressed ham and dares to streak across the neighborhood to prevent me from ever being curious about dangly man parts.

fightingI am not capable of being a doormat for anyone.  Growing up,  I had to learn to hold my ground with my brothers.  We fought a lot.  Sometimes with words, and sometimes physically. My mom was a single mother with three kids and she didn’t have the time or energy to be a referee for every little thing.  I remember when I was maybe eight years old, my older brother would hold me down and dangle a stream of spit over my face, waiting until the last second to suck it up into his mouth.  I hated this.  It felt like torture.  One time in particular, I had had enough and I snapped.  I  can clearly remember the anger and frustration over not being able to move while he pinned me to the floor and taunted me in the way only siblings can do.   My anger became physical, and somehow it fueled my strength.   I kicked my legs up and over his shoulders pulling him down backwards.  Then I pinned him to the ground and spit right in his eye!  He cried and screamed, and I felt soooooo good.  I was victorious! I was David and he was Goliath and I bested him with my legs and a wad of spit!  Then my mom grounded me for un-lady like behavior,  so that took some of the euphoria out of my victory, but that was the last time he ever did that to me.

While growing up with my brothers could be frustrating and traumatic at times, I remember always looking up to my older brother when I was young because he knew how to do all the things my younger brother and I couldn’t do.  He could work the TV and VCR.  He knew what channel everything was on, and when we finally got cable he and I would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and watch HBO and Showtime when our mom was asleep.  One time, we snuck out of bed and watched A Clockwork Orange, and we both agree that movie scarred us for life.  Another time, all three of us took our mom’s tape recorder and we sat in the boy’s bedroom and made a swear tape.  We took turns saying swear words and recorded ourselves cussing and laughing so hard we couldn’t breath.  It’s hard to believe how funny we thought the word “butthole” was.  I also remember we liked playing hide and seek in the house, and on one occasion my younger brother hid in the clothes dryer.  So I slammed the door closed and turned it on to get him back for wrecking my brand new yellow bicycle.  It had rainbows and streamers all over it, and he wrecked it trying to jump it off a homemade ramp in the driveway.   Again, I was outnumbered by boys and felt such victory in that moment!  (I only let him thump around in the dryer for about ten seconds, but those ten seconds were sweet!)

1351013924343_2717243[1]Although I would have denied this as a sixteen year old, the truth is that I loved growing up with my brothers.  There were cycles of bonding and revenge, maturity and immaturity that bound the three of us together.   My brothers were very protective over me as teenagers, taught me how to defend myself, to be independent and take shit from no one, especially them.  To this day my older brother is one of my best friends.  We talk on the phone several times each week, and sometimes a few times a day.

For good or bad, Dutch Ovens or unending laughter, I wouldn’t trade my brothers or our memories for anything.  🙂

PS–My older brother called me today as I was writing this post and I told him what I was writing about.  He said, “Do you remember when I used to hold you down and do the spit stream over your face?”  Ahhhh, good times.

 

Wanda Says…Why my husband’s gaming privileges are about to be revoked.

boy playing video gameA couple of days after my last post, On the subject of video games and prison lingo, this conversation took place with Bryce about another video game.

Bryce:  Mommy, will you watch me play this game?  It’s pretty cool.

Me:  Sure, I can watch for a few minutes.

Bryce:  Let me show you the characters first.

He starts flipping through these pages of characters on the game.  The graphics of this game are also cartoons, but I realized right away that it’s more of an adult cartoon style.  At least the detailed pictures were.  When the game is in play the characters all compress down into innocuous looking little people and they appear child-like.  But when you peruse the actual game roster the characters are all sexy fantasy creatures…who are well endowed and wearing very little clothing.  I saw picture after picture of female characters with their breasts hanging out and wearing small bikini style costumes to match their persona.  I was shocked, but Bryce didn’t seem to notice how exposed these characters were and the conversation continued…

Me:  I’m surprised daddy let you pick this game.

Bryce:  Why?  It’s fun.

He then shows me a picture of an exceptionally racy looking character and I almost choked on my tongue.

Me:  Who is that character?

Bryce:  She’s a Succubus.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  (said quietly to myself so Bryce wouldn’t hear)

When I mentioned this little conversation to my husband, he had the decency to look embarrassed before he started laughing his ass off.  And when I mentioned writing this post to him he said, “What’s the big deal?  It’s a mythological creature……that could be painted on the hood of a Camaro.”

I rest my case.

On the subject of video games and prison lingo.

werewolfLast week Dan downloaded a new game to the ipad for Bryce.  The graphics of the game are cartoons, but the game is still a bit scary because all the enemies are monsters, like vampire bats and werewolves.

This was the conversation I had with Dan about the game last week.  Keep in mind that Bryce is only four years old, but because he has an older sister who loves video games, he’s more adept than most four year olds at playing them.

Dan:  I got this new game for Bryce.  At first you only had to shoot enemies with a bow and arrow, which didn’t strike me as being overly violent.  But now you have to defeat your enemies with a dagger, and that just seems too violent.

Me:  You think?  He’s four, and he has to defeat enemies with a dagger?  Is that the same game he asked me for help with the other day?  He told me he was in a “creepy situation” with a game and needed help getting out of the level.  I saw the vampire bats and told him to shut it off.”

(I want Dan and Bryce to have their own activities, you know, father/son stuff, so I don’t want to interfere.  Although I am a bit concerned, I’m trying to trust Dan’s judgment).

Dan:  Yeah, I’m not sure we’ll be keeping this game.

Two days later….

Dan:  Bryce, tell mommy what you did to the werewolf.

Bryce:  I shanked him with a shiv.

Me:  (epic sigh)

Wanda Says…On my son’s opinion of Corn Syrup.

boy with juiceMy kids love juice.

I don’t really serve them much juice because I know it’s the equivalent of giving them sugar water.  Now that they are a little older I buy reduced-sugar apple juice, or all natural juice boxes for their lunches.

Last week, in an attempt to switch things up a bit, my husband picked up some Sunny Delight at the store.  The kids love orange juice and he thought they would like it.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

As I was standing in the kitchen looking at the list of ingredients on the juice bottle, this is the conversation that went down as my son was drinking his orange juice….

Me:  Dan, this juice has corn syrup in it.  So we can finish the bottle, but let’s not buy this again.

Bryce:  This juice is delicious!  What’s corn syrup?

Me:  The syrup of corn.

Bryce:  I love the syrup of corn!

Me:  I’m just kidding Bryce.  It’s a sweetener made from corn and it’s really bad for you.

Bryce:  It’s not bad for me!  It’s so good for me!  I love this!  I love this corn syrup juice!

Me:  Well, enjoy it while it lasts because we’re not buying it again.

Bryce:  We are going to buy it again!  Aren’t we, daddy?  Right, daddy?  Right, daddy?  Say yes.  Say yes.  Say yes.

orange surpriseBased on Bryce’s behavior, I would say Sunny Delight is crack for kids.

Now he refers to Sunny Delight as corn syrup juice and everyday he asks for some.  Everyday he says, “Can I have corn syrup juice?  Corn syrup is so good for my body and you need to get me some more.  It’s good.  It’s soooooo good.  I love corn!  I will eat if for dinner if you put some syrup on it.”

Yeah, we are never buying this again.  Sorry, Sunny D.

 

Wanda Says…I’ve touched poop with my bare hands.

smelly diaperI’ve done a lot of disgusting, undesirable things since becoming a mom.

For example, at various times and for various reasons I’ve caught both of my kid’s pee, poop, and vomit with my bare hands.  This was usually in an attempt to redirect the flow or minimize the splash zone.

I’ve sniffed butts, armpits, underwear, diapers, and feet to determine the source of offensive odors.  You know you’re a parent when you have no qualms, whatsoever, about picking up your small child and smelling their ass in public to determine if he or she has a poopy diaper.

When Bryn was three years old, she crawled into bed with me, woke me up and told me she had an upset stomach.  I laid her down with me and began to rub her tummy while questioning her about her symptoms.  Before I knew what was coming, she sat up and threw up all over both of us in the middle of my bed.  It was everywhere.  She was hysterical and we were both covered in vomit.

What?  It's just a little pee!

What? It’s just a little pee!

When my son was an infant he shot a stream of his pee into my open mouth when I was changing his diaper.  With baby boys you can never let your guard down while changing diapers. You have to be focused and quick to avoid disaster.  He was laying on his back on the changing table and I was talking to my husband.  His timing was perfect.  I was distracted while doing two things at once, and his pee shot straight up into my face as I turned my head and opened my mouth to talk.  Believe me when I say that was a startling, gag-worthy experience, and one I hope never to repeat, ever.

Another time while at Disneyland with the kids, I was holding Bryce on my hip while waiting in line to meet Mickey Mouse.  He was two and not yet potty trained.  He peed and pooped in his pull-up at the same time, and the two substances mixed to form a watery concoction that leaked all over my clothes from my waist down to my thighs.  I had extra clothes for him and was able to buy a new shirt for myself at the gift shop, but was at a loss to replace my jeans.  I smelled like I had the Hershey squirts for the rest of the day, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

When my daughter was five we were in the bathroom at Midway Airport in Chicago, Illinois.  Midway is a pretty nice airport, and their bathrooms are actually nicer than most, but when you have hundreds of people moving through them everyday they just can’t be that clean.  Well, after using the facilities, my daughter accidentally dropped orange cather favorite stuffed animal, a little orange cat named Spooky, into the airport bathroom toilet.  We both froze. And then, without thinking,  I did what any self-respecting, child loving woman with a Mom Card would do…I reached my hand into that Godforsaken pee-germ bowl of bacteria and I saved Spooky.  I rinsed him in the sink of the bathroom, wrapped him in a roll of paper towels, and then asked the cleaning woman in the restroom to pour straight bleach on my hands.  When we arrived at our hotel, I soaked Spooky in hot water and shampoo (it was the only soap I had).  Bryn was sad that I wouldn’t allow her to snuggle Spooky after his traumatic nearly-flushed down the toilet ordeal, but she understood that he needed to be thoroughly decontaminated first.  After arriving home at the end of our vacation, I put Spooky through a hot water cycle in the washing machine and high heat dryer before he found his way back into Bryn’s arms.

What I find noteworthy about these foul experiences with my children is how becoming a parent changes your reaction to them. Instead of becoming physically ill myself after being thrown up on, or grossed out by the ordeal, my first thought is of my child’s comfort, fear and how to make it better for them.  Instinctually, my own needs become secondary to theirs.  I will walk around Disneyland with my son’s poop on my jeans, and not make a federal case of it so he doesn’t feel shame.  I will bathe and wash my germy toiletdaughter’s hair before I wash her vomit out of my own hair so she will know her health and comfort are more important to me than a little (a lot) of throw up.  I will stick my hand in a disgusting airport bathroom toilet to save a beloved stuffed animal before I will allow my daughter to suffer that loss.

I have earned my Mom Card, and God only knows what their pre-teen and teen years will require of me.

Now I would love to know…What is the most disgusting thing you’ve ever done for your kids?  🙂