I'm not very good with other people's bodily fluids. I was not the girl in high school that held your hair back when you threw up, that was Kellie Stewart who should be Sainted for taking care of everyone when we got hammered off of grain alcohol. I really thought that once I became a mother all that stuff wouldn't bother me anymore. I was wrong. Sure diapers are one thing, usually whatever is lurking them is self-contained. If not, you know about it pretty quickly and TCB in a flash. Barfing is something else entirely and I leave that cleanup to Mark and a Hazmat suit.
Thus far we've been lucky and haven't really had anyone that suffered from the big D. I was kind of hoping it would stay that way until they were 10 or so when they could handle the clean up all by themselves. That dream came crashing down yesterday when I got a call from Piper's school reporting "significant diarrhea." Trust me, those are two words you never want to hear in conjunction with one another.
When children are sick, that motherly instinct really kicks in... until you're up every three seconds changing a pull up. Until you find yourself at the grocery store at 8:30 pm buying more pull us and anti-bacterial cleaning supplies just for good measure. Then the maternal instincts begin to lean to the Joan Crawford end of the scale. There's just something about holding a kid down over a toilet while being kicked that takes away those warm and squishy feelings (bad choice of words - sorry) toward them.
I am sure that my neighbors figured that out when I picked her up, potato sack style and put her in the car wearing a shirt and pull ups all the while screaming "I am so tired of your shit" (again bad choice). But before you judge me, I assure you that she was matching me toe-to-toe in the screaming department. And yes, I do expect a visit from family services.
The good news? Now I have it. I can't say as I am surprised as I've been handling poo for the past 24 hours. But as my old roommate use to say, "at least you're losing weight."
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