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parenting in one (well, two to be exact) fluid motion(s)…

May 27, 2011

A  dripping snapshot of 15 unbelievably sodden parenting minutes…

Yesterday the kiddos and I headed out in the late afternoon sun  to wrestle the wily alligator that is our 95% gutted backyard. And by gutted I mean like a midwest deer at the hands of one of my Michigan uncles sometime mid-fall. Ew, sorry that was a bit more visceral than I intended. But have a look for yourself and see if you disagree.



Whoa. Now picture sunken patios, juicy blueberry patches, thoughtfully laid out drought tolerant California natives, showy South African proteas, a patriotic kangaroo paw, jaunty sunflowers, lush plum trees, raised bed of deep, rich soil rising in a symphony of heart breaking beauty…yes. yes.  That vision currently only exists somewhere between in my frontal and temporal lobes. Germinating. Ready bloom forth. Jesus, I am full of the metaphors this morning and literally cannot help myself. I MUST inflict them on you, dear readers.

But no, this post is not about our garden. Nor the fresh gopher hole I discovered yesterday (although no doubt I’ll be growing all Carl Spackler a la Caddyshack if this problem worsens).

No this is a post about poop. And vomit.


Are you still there? Well then, let’s continue shall we?

So there I am raking mulch and swearing over the gopher hole that appeared uninvited near our new plum tree (that I totally planted in a gopher basket so you’re foiled mr? mrs? ms? gopher) when Jarah announces he has to poop. On the potty. Which is not a cause for celebration. Jarah only announces he has to poop on the potty if he’s already pooped. In his pants. So I head to the deck to find my suspicions are confirmed. He did indeed forgo the much lauded potty. But in a twist, also decided to forgo the pants. Instead, he chose the deck. Where his shoes, clothes, body and around 4,345 trucks were all coated in a very berry (we have been feasting on local strawberries with madness, fervor and passionate intensity), very smelly concoction.

I gagged. I rolled my eyes to the heaven and whispered a prayer of mercy. I looked over my shoulder to see if any guardian angel was on hand to help a sister out. Nope, I was on my own. Ten minutes later I had sanitized myself enough to handle small children. Had the boy more or less clean enough to get in the house and straight to the tub. The deck was wiped down. The toys in a bucket awaiting a major washing.

Then Bronte decided the moment was ripe for a pre-dinner meltdown.

Jarah seeing his sister melting down decides he could do a bit better and gives it his level best. I (holding a nearly 20 pound writhing 8 month old) squat to collect my convulsing son only to press down on Bronte’s stomach at exactly the wrong angle. Leaving me dripping from chin to knee in baby vomit.

Folks, that is why sometimes my husband  walks through the door to discover his wife disemboweling him over a breakfast dish he left on the table.

One Comment leave one →
  1. May 27, 2011 11:09 am

    Ha! Sorry to laugh at your pain. From a distance, it’s funny. If it happened to me, I’d probably cry. Being covered in vomit right before dinner, and right after cleaning up a huge poop disaster, is definitely what meltdowns are made of, for me anyway.

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