Alright, let’s do it.
Let’s talk about the gross stuff.
I try to avoid all those bodily-function conversations that very naturally come along with parenthood on RG because…well, a) I know not everyone who reads here is a parent – most aren’t, actually, and I’m not sure I would have loved reading about this stuff pre-baby arrival, and b) you know: gross. It’s just really gross.
But I’m going to tell you what just happened to me this morning, again for a couple of reasons:
1. Those of you who aren’t yet parents may be one day, and preparation is half the battle, blah blah blah;
2. I need sympathy.
Look, I’m not new to the world of projectile vomiting. I went to college, too.
But today was something special.
Because there was an incident in the very early morning (requiring replacement of onesie, sheets, and assorted stuffed animals), and then a situation in the late morning (requiring two parental clothing changes, a full kitchen Fantastiking, and the corraling of dogs who appear to view vomit as a five-star meal – I told you this was gross, I’m sorry)…and then I drove Kendrick to work, because he’s working in Westchester today, and THREE SECONDS after I drove away there was an incident in the car.
Have you ever seen a car seat?
They are like little battlestar galacticas, thats how hard they are to assemble. And all that assembly means: straps. And buttons. And bolts.
You know what sucks to clean? Straps and buttons and bolts.
Anyway, it’s all fine now. Every creature and piece of clothing and button and bolt in the house is happy, at least passably healthy, and either clean or sitting in a bowl of hot water, soaking.
Oh, except for me.
I am disgusting.
