I may be momniscient, but there have been a few recent transgressions even I could never have predicted.
Transgressions of the mucoid kind.
As a parent, you expect to clean up a certain amount of widely-ranging bodily fluids, solids, suspensions, and emulsions, but it’s difficult to predict when and where these opportunities will arise.
For example, just the other day, whilst keeping my two-year old company as he sat on the potty, I noticed the trash can was overflowing. Naturally, I picked up the trash can to inspect and rearrange its contents, and a couple of crumpled up lengths of toilet paper were left behind, stuck to the wall.
Adhered to the wall.
Glued to the wall with the unparalleled strength of a certain unidentified child’s mucus. In vain, I tried to detach the toilet paper from the wall. I was unsuccessful.
From here til eternity, there will be two little pieces of toilet paper stuck to the wall, forever reminding me of my haphazard attempts at maintaining a clean and tidy home.
Just moments later, as I washed my hands, I noticed the unmistakable glistening of day-old sputum in the sink. It had a feminine tinge of pink, which was rather disturbing in its own right. I could do nothing at the moment but walk away, in order to avoid producing my own semi-solid bodily fluid to contribute to the mixture, but I ovaried-up and cleaned up that blob with a baby wipe during my next foray into said bathroom. It was a proud moment.
I visit that bathroom many times a day, sometimes alone, but usually accompanied by one or two small creatures.
The creatures require frequent bathing. In fact, the very evening of the day that I’d received these mucoid-induced gagging opportunities, I bathed the smaller creature. True story. The bath itself was uneventful, though the creature did refuse to exit the tub. Transitions can be hard. Bad ass mom that I am, I simply wrapped him up in a towel and scooped the wiggling creature out of the tub. Then we both played a game we invented and like to call, “Baby.”
He pretends he’s a baby. When it’s my turn, I say, “Oh, what a cute little baby.”
As we were snuggling, I carried the Baby out to see the Daddy, and as I lifted my head from cooing at his sweet little face, the Daddy and I both noticed that my hair seemed to be attached to the Baby’s nose.
In fact, my hair was indistinguishable from a strand of what the Baby calls “goobies.” Where did my hair end and the goobies begin? It was a disgusting mystery none could solve.
The moral of this story? It’s time for mama to get a haircut.