The Grossest Parts of Parenthood (My Freshest Contribution to "Scary Mommy")

Here is a sample of one of the reasons that becoming a parent requires an incredibly strong stomach:

1. Baby Poop. Many of us remember the sweet, milky smell of our newborns as they cuddled against our chests.  I, too, remember this smell fondly.  A smell I remember less fondly is that of a diaper full of stinking, loose, mustard colored shit.  But, we parents do our duty (no pun intended) and change diaper after diaper full of the stuff, filling receptacles in our homes full of literal crap.

I settled my darling 2-week-old daughter onto a changing pad laid down on the ottoman in my living room.  I was prepared with wipes, diapers, ointments, and cloths to pat dry her precious little bum.  I removed her wet diaper, relieved that it contained only pee.  I gathered her tiny ankles into my hand and lifted them to clean her as she let loose a small sigh…and a jet powered stream of fecal matter that splattered across my shirt, turning it into a disgusting man’s Jackson Pollack.  Did I mention that the aforementioned stream also splattered through my hair and across the couch cushions?  How adorable!

If you like the above, please continue reading at: http://www.scarymommy.com/grossest-parts-of-parenthood/

Enjoy! 

But, Can I Forgive Myself?

But, Can I Forgive Myself?

            I threw on my flip-flops out of pure laziness.  They were there, on the floor, right in front of me.  Damn my lazy ass!

            While taking a summer Driver’s Education course, my gray-haired, retired football coach of a teacher grumped at me about my choice of footwear: “It isn’t safe to drive in those flimsy pieces of plastic you got hanging off your feet. They get caught under the pedal as you drive, you’re in serious trouble, Missy!”  How I wish that I had heard that voice in my head, warning me about the dangers of flip-floppery as my laziness bested my common sense and I threw on that flimsy footwear to accompany my children outside to play.

            As I hurried down the steps of my front stoop, I stepped just right (or, just wrong, as the case may be) and my ankle turned and collapsed under me.  Crashing down the three concrete stairs, I had only one thought, “Shit! MY BABY!!!!”

            Although I know it isn’t possible, it seems now, as I look back, that I leapt up even before my knees and elbows crashed into the sidewalk.  “SCOTT!!!!!!!!” I shrieked in terror, begging my husband to hurry, “THE BABY AND I FELL! WE FELL ONTO THE CONCRETE!!!!!” 

            And there she lay, my 10-month-old daughter, my beautiful baby who had been riding my hip, face down on the ground, wailing. My mind raced: What do I do? What the fuck do I do? Do I flip her over? Do I pick her up? What if she’s injured her neck? What if moving her paralyzes her? Do I call an ambulance?

            Seeing her, crying in pain and fear, my maternal instincts were screaming at me to pick her up. As carefully as I could, steadying her neck, I rolled her over to assess the damage.  Her big blue eyes seemed to plead with me to hold her, comfort her.  I did pick her up.  A scrape on her face, a bruise on her forehead, she appeared to be ok.  My gut said she was ok, but what if my guts were wrong?

            Only after four hours of observation, pacing, and shushing in the Pediatric Emergency Department, when the supervising pediatrician cleared us to leave, the adrenaline rushed out of my body, and my own scrapes, bruises, twisted ankle, and jolted joints finally began to ache.  But, those aches and pains were nothing compared to the guilt I felt for my mistake.

            Yes, I know it was an accident, something that could have happened to anyone.  Friends and family reassured me that I shouldn’t feel guilty, that I am a good mother.  But, I have a hard time forgiving myself for mistakes, especially if one of them harms my child.

             I felt this same sense of, likely misplaced, guilt when my first daughter, also at 10-months-old, nearly rolled off of the changing table as I bent down to retrieve her pajamas.  Just as she tipped off of the table, about to fall head first into the ground, I snagged her foot and caught her in mid-air, dangling her precariously by her ankle.

            In this case, nothing happened.  She wasn’t hurt, and she actually giggled at what she thought was a game.  But, I was haunted by the “what ifs,” the thought of what could have happened.

            What good does it do me as a parent to torture myself with the “what ifs”?  My only answer to that question is that they keep me on my toes.  To remind me not to take their safety and health for granted.

            And, how will I be able to move on from my guilt?  While cooking dinner the day after our fall, I received a little message from the universe.  As I cooked, I sang my baby a song, repeating the phrase "I love you."  I turned to look at her and she said, clear as a bell, "I love you."  Logically, I know it is incredibly unlikely that she understands the meaning of those words at 10-months-old, she was just repeating my sounds.  But, I think it was a message that means I need to let go of the mommy guilt and forgive myself for falling. At least, that's what I need to believe.  All parents, good parents, make mistakes, but we move forward and forgive.