I spent the weekend with a puking eight-year-old. And since it was MY eight-year-old, I was front and center for most of the puking.
Parenting quickly teaches you what you can and cannot handle.
For example, poop diapers never bothered me much, with one very important caveat: the poop had to belong to my child. I’ve had to change a few chunky diapers from children other than my own, and it has never failed to make me gag.
(Am I alone in this? I’ve always wondered. I know it obviously means I shouldn’t ever be employed at a day care, but that’s not news to me. I’m not one to go around thinking all children are adorable little angels. I love some children, and like some others, but I also feel that a fair number of kids are complete assholes. Which only makes sense. All of the adult assholes out there had to start somewhere.)
When it comes to vomit, my stomach is not so iron-clad. I learned this while I was holding the puke bowl for the puking child, and started to retch myself. It wasn’t sympathetic retching either. I was just completely grossed out. And the entire time, my husband was staring at me bug-eyed – from across the room, mind you, well out of the smell zone – and begging me to hold the bowl steady.
Is it a bad sign if you look inside your bag, and think, “Wow, a crazy person must live in there”?
This is an inventory of what I’m currently lugging around:
Make-up bag, containing six lipglosses, three lipsticks, a compact and a tampon
Sunglasses, in case
Kleenex, 2 packs
Assortment of receipts
Advertisement for body wrap that magically shrinks body (George thinks this is hooey, but I’m totally going to go do it. Because it’s magic.)
Facial cleansing wipes
Used light bulb (reminder to get a replacement, which I’ve already done)
Belt for vacuum (reminder to get a replacement, which I haven’t yet done)
Two sweat wristbands, both used (ick)
Gym towel, used (ick again)
Water bottle (half-empty . . . or half-full?)
A single coffee bean (no idea)
I think it’s time I streamlined my life. Or, at least, my bag.
Have you read Blonde Mom Blog and Blonde Mom Shops? Go ahead. Go check out her blog and shopping site now. (Or, as Lola from Charlie and Lola would say, “Now now now now now!”) Jamie is adorable, and funny as hell, and likes wine, which gets her the Official Whitney Stamp of Approval.
Jamie and I have partnered up to giveaway a deluxe beach bag, filled with summer goodness — a beach mat, towel, selection of my books, sunscreen and lipbalm, valued at $125.
Pretty cool, huh?
If you’d like a chance to enter, click here. You’ll need to log on through Facebook in order to enter, and will get additional entries for following me on Twitter and liking Blond Mom Blog on Facebook.
My friend J., who is very ladylike, once told me that it’s not good manners to eat in the car.
I think of this every time I do eat in the car, always hoping that J. won’t pull up next to me at a traffic light just as I’m stuffing French fries in my mouth, while great blobs of ketchup drip down on my shirt.
French fries aside, I mostly pick portable snacks to dine on while driving. Bananas, sports bars, pretty much anything I can eat one-handed. (I always like to keep one hand free for flipping off other drivers as needed, another habit I suspect J. wouldn’t approve of.)
But today, when I stopped at a light, I looked over at the car next to me, and watched as the driver began to eat cereal. With milk. And a spoon.
At first, this just seemed silly to me. Hasn’t she ever heard of granola bars? But then, I began to gain appreciation for the thought that went into her breakfast-on-the-go. Rather than opting for a bowl, she’d poured her cereal and milk into a square Tupperware container, which would be less likely to spill. And it didn’t look as though she were sloshing milk down the front of her blouse.
I began to wonder how far she would take this. Did she stop at cereal, or did she eat other meals requiring utensils behind the wheel too? She could probably manage soup with the same square Tupperware system. But what about a New York strip steak that would require cutting? Or barbecued ribs? Or corn on the cob? Maybe all this time, I’d been underachieving with my bananas.
I wanted to roll down my window and ask her, but by that time, I think I’d freaked her out by staring at her for too long. Once the light turned green, she peeled off, clearly eager to put space between us. Or maybe she just wanted to get to the next red light, so she could get back to her breakfast.