Faster than a speeding fungus! More powerful than a toilet clog! Able to leap tall boo-boos in a single bound! It’s a bird. It’s a plane. No—it’s SUPERMOM!
If my life as a mother of three were chronicled in a comic book, the super villains wouldn’t be Magneto or Lex Luthor; they’d be: Molluscum Contagiosum, The Ingrown Toenail, and that dastardly duo Nocturnal Enuresis & Mega Colon.
Simply put: motherhood is not for the faint of heart . . . or stomach.
Here’s how the movie trailer would begin:
Like a flash flood of foulness, evil strikes without warning.
Right? One moment you’re huffing that intoxicating new-baby scent, and the next you’re blasting regurgitated cheeseburger off a textured ceiling.
Face it, there IS NO parenting book or class that prepares you for verifying that your child did indeed “pass” the magnet she swallowed during a magic trick gone very, very wrong.
But fortunately, motherhood helps us acquire new super powers and gadgets we never dreamed we would need. My Supermom tool belt holds:
- a snot-slurping bulb syringe;
- a LiceMeister® comb;
- and a commercial grade, 36-inch, hand-powered, steel toilet auger I affectionately call The Turdinator.
(No, really . . . you should see my recent purchases on Amazon. It could be a teen abstinence campaign.)
But even all those tools were no match for the time my kindergartener and my dog got matching gang tattoos that read “Ringworm-4-Evah!”
There’s only one thing worse than a cross-species fungal epidemic in your home: ringworm with a side of Rotavirus.
Oh yes, we were ALL nibbling on Saltines and sipping Pedialyte mojitos that week.
As soon as the worst of it had passed, we noticed Ike the dog’s belly rash getting larger. The poor guy was miserable and clearly needed medical attention.
My husband and I flipped for it. I lost. But we both agreed our 5-year-old should come along just in case the vet wanted to see the two cases of ringworm side-by-side. (Jealous yet?)
Unfortunately for the good people of Forsyth County, she was also my child at that time voted Least Likely to Follow Directions.
Folks, I hadn’t even crossed the building’s threshold when every creature within a three-mile radius was assaulted by an indescribable cacophony coming from the retail corner of the waiting room.
There she was, my 5-year-old daughter, repeatedly squeezing THREE life-sized rubber chicken dog toys . . . IN EACH HAND.
Yes. Really. I’m telling you, a marching band of boozy bagpipers is lower on the decibel scale than my child’s impromptu poultry orchestra.
Instictively, my big Black Lab sprinted toward the noise, flying me behind him like a human kite to my child and her rhythmically squawking chicken-hands. I slammed on the breaks, growled “NO” to one, “SIT” to the other, and “DROP IT” to a frightened elderly woman extracting a taser from her purse.
Miraculously, they all complied.
But, wait . . . there’s more.
Cue the vet. Make that the very handsome vet.
He was tall, with sandy brown hair and dimples in both cheeks. We locked eyes for a fleeting moment over introductions and he smiled—at ME. Listen, for a woman who’s been called “Sir” by various retail clerks more times than I care to admit, it was pretty magical.
I was basking in the afterglow of his attention when he began to examine the circular rash on Ike’s belly.
“Any vomiting or diarrhea?” he asked.
And before I could even form the words, my daughter blurted, “YES! Both my baby brother AND MY MOMMY have diarrhea today.”
The last thing I remember before my head hit the floor . . . was the look on that poor man’s face. It is a sight I will never unsee.
A few months later, Dr. Stinkface and I were reluctantly reunited after Ike the dog swallowed the Christmas popcorn garland—threaded needle and all.
“Sir,” he began, cautiously averting his eyes, “ . . . you’ll need to keep a close eye on your dog’s backside for the next 48 hours. If you see any string emerge—whatever you do—DON’T pull it.”
Meh . . . another day, another doo-doo.
But such is the epic battle known as Motherhood.
And as absolutely disgusting as it can be at times . . . fine—most of the time . . . I actually wouldn’t trade it for all the Clorox Wipes in Costco.
You see, I’ve come to believe that with enough time (and anti-fungal ointment), it’s these moments of abject humiliation and repulsiveness that eventually become the much needed bloopers reel.
Some moments take our breath away, while others just make us want to hold our breath—but they’re ALL part of the motherhood package, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
And just like the magnet that traveled through my daughter’s digestive track seven years ago . . .
. . . this too shall pass.