That’s Disgusting.

It’s been a while since I last posted. Nearly 9 months, in fact. Many, many things have happened in that time.

The kids discovered a lizard. Poppy's face says it all:

The kids discovered a lizard. Poppy’s face says it all: “Eh? I guess. Yeah, it’s kind of cool.”

There were many times that something mildly out of the ordinary happened and I thought, “Huh. I should share that with the tens of people that still give a shit about this blog.” But nothing really got me over that ol’ not-postin’ hump. Nothing, that is, until this morning. This VERY morning, when something so disgusting happened that I thought, “This is it. This is the event that deserves to be shared with the masses.”

I accidentally brushed my teeth with Aquafresh Kidzone Strawberry Sparkly Barbie Twinkles Toothpaste.

I know. Let’s all have a moment of silence to fully process what I went through.

For those lucky bastards who’ve never experienced this: it’s horrific. You know the feeling when you accidentally drink a glass of Sprite, thinking it’s water, and it just ruins your life? Well, imagine that glass of Sprite is the consistency of chalky snot and there you have it. I already gag every single time I brush my teeth, but this was truly one for the record books.

I could have just let this one go, let it be a little secret between me and the mouthwash. But instead I am choosing to take this opportunity to break the silence surrounding a very real problem, a problem that is plaguing millions of my peers who don’t have a voice to talk about what we are all silently suffering.

That’s right, I am here today to admit publicly that being a parent is fucking GROSS. Seriously.

And it’s not just limited to accidentally ingesting fake strawberry flavored BS that wouldn’t be in your bathroom but for those little monkeys you created. No, it’s much deeper than that:

Phantom Smells

Every parent is familiar with the phantom poop smell. It seems to come out of nowhere, but only intermittently. First, you check the kid: no poop. You check their clothes: no poop. You check the trash: no poop. But still, the smell lingers. Sometimes you’re able to locate the source; oftentimes, it’s somewhere disturbing like on the side of  your hand, where you would karate chop someone if that was your thing. Or perhaps on your cheek, or in the back of your hair.

But sometimes, you never find the source. Those times? Those times are the most disturbing times of all.

In a slight twist on this theme, last month I wore a shirt I hadn’t worn in quite some time. All day, I kept catching a whiff of slightly spoiled milk, or perhaps an overripe banana. I never found the source but I did realize, when I got home, that the last time I had worn the shirt I was still breastfeeding Poppy.

Apparently I don’t do laundry frequently, or well.

Do you smell something?

Do you smell something?

When All You Have is a Hammer…

A few weeks ago, I blindly grabbed a nice, expensive hand towel from the stack to dry my face after a particularly intense exfoliation session. I immediately discovered that someone had used it as toilet paper.

Somehow, knowing the source was not reassuring this time. Not at all.

Which one of you mo%@#$%f^ckers did this?

Which one of you mo%@#$f^ckers did this?

If “Ifs” and “Butts” Were Candy and Nuts…

“Did you actually stick your finger in his bottom, or just poke him on the outside? Outside of his pants, or outside of his body? You promise? OK. Fine. You don’t have to wash your hands.  This time.”

I don’t know if this one needs further explanation.

The Mutter Museum of My Life

I was prepared for dealing with sick kids. Because kids get sick. This is a fact.

And my kids do truly spend a goodly part of each year expelling fluids from every orifice. Sometimes oozily, in the case of the annual winter cold; sometimes violently, in the case of the periodic stomach bug or the aggressive spring cough that always teeters on the verge of croup.

I was broadly prepared for this fact.

What I was NOT prepared for was the litany of ailments and injuries that would grace our doorstep on an all-too-frequent basis. Note that all of the following photos were pulled from emails to our long-suffering pediatrician, with subjects of varying degrees of desperation:

  • Ringworm and other various skin ailments.
Ring around the...

Ring around the…

...rosey gross growths on my offspring.

…rosey gross growths on my offspring.

  • Pencils stabbed through the eyebrow.
  • Approx. 5,000,000 splinters, acquired by running one’s hand down the trunk of an old, dead tree.
  • Teeth right through the lip. Just right fucking through it.
  • Eye beans.
What. Seriously. Wtf is that.

What. Seriously. Wtf is that.

  • Dangly teeth.
I need a valium just seeing this.

I need a valium just seeing this.

  • Worms, of the digestive variety. [NB: We haven’t *actually* had a real infestation. However, butt worms are like a bomb threat: every time your child tells you that they think they saw them, you have to take it seriously. And you have to seriously investigate. Seriously.]

Food of Indeterminate Origin

The number of times that I’ve caught my kids eating food that I’m pretty sure they found on the ground? Almost infinite.

The number of times that I’ve been fed strawberries at the park by Poppy, only to realize moments later that we didn’t bring strawberries with us to the park? Only once, that I’m aware of.

But seriously, Poppy, WHERE DID THE STRAWBERRIES COME FROM???

The Upside

Of course, there are also upsides to the fact that kids gravitate towards grossness. We were recently reading Harry Potter something or other, and Ron made a joke about Uranus. The kids were laughing, but I could sense that they didn’t really get it.

So I explained it. And now I hear variations on this, every day. All day.

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