I used to be a germaphobe. I mean to the extent that I had a little travel hand sanitizer strapped to all of my purses and on road trips I would hold pee for so long I'd end up feeling sick, just to avoid using gas station bathrooms. Then I had a kid. After a few months of getting drooled on, spit up on and daily handling of another human being's fecal matter, a little dirt isn't such a BFD.
When she was about nine months old The Parasite crawled over to the cat food bowl and ate a piece before I could stop her. For a nanosecond I was horrified, and then I shrugged my shoulders and carried on with my day. The first time she had an honest-to-goodness throw up, it was down my bra and in my hair. I was too worried about her to care about vomit in my cleavage. There are some seriously terrible stories involving poo that I will spare you all. You're welcome. They say parenting isn't for the faint of heart, and they're absolutely right.
I took The Parasite for a haircut today, and to keep the tears at bay I promised her a trip to the park on the way home. Another mom was there with her toddler twins. The boys wanted a snack so their mom headed over to the trusty diaper bag to get them some cheesy things. But they couldn't dig in before she had dutifully cleaned their hands with hand sanitizer. And all I could think was "Damn, I'd rather The Parasite eat a few grains of sand than whatever is in that shit." Of course I didn't say that to her because the last thing a parent of toddler twins needs is yet another person telling them "UR DOIN IT WRONG", but I do feel like I have come a long, long way.
Post a Comment