Motherhood Is Disgusting

Motherhood Is Disgusting @foxywinepocket #humor
Motherhood Is Disgusting @foxywinepocket #humor

It’s such an amazing feeling—bringing home your perfect newborn, in a brand-new outfit, into the beautifully-appointed nursery. Everything is so sparkly and fresh and tidy. But after the umpteenth spit-up, the zillionth dirty diaper, and the inevitable projectile poop, you realize: Crap. Kids are messy. And *I’m* the one who has to clean up after them.

So you look around your now stained and cluttered house, and you methodically adapt to your new reality. You stash baby wipes in every room and purse. You go to IKEA and buy a gajillion bins to store the toys. And you revel in the dog’s ability to clean in and around the high chair after every meal.

But try as you might, you simply can’t fully prepare for every mess.

My disgusting story started with a farting mishap. The kind of mishap where my preschooler thought that he was going to release a simple fart but instead found himself sitting in warm, squishy underwear.

Please note: this has never happened to me. I’m talking about my son here.

He’d had similar incidents before. And each time, I refrained from calling it a “shart” and casually advised my son to “learn the difference between a fart and a poop.”  He would nod, present me his butt for cleaning, put on a pair of fresh underwear, and get on with his day.

I was never thrilled to have to deal with one of these accidents, but they didn’t happen all that often. And let’s face it—I was just so happy that my son was out of diapers that I didn’t make a fuss over the occasional slip-up.

Until one terrible day…

My son came to me to report that he’d had another farting “mistake.” I held back a curse word, forced a smile, and said, “We all have accidents, Sweetie. Let’s go clean up.”

We went into the bathroom, where I directed him to the toilet so that he could finish whatever it was that he clearly needed to finish as I rinsed out his underpants in the sink.

As I was scrubbing, he sneezed, and a HUGE booger on an enormously thick string of snot torpedoed from his nose. And just hung there … precariously, down his panic-stricken face.

Now I can handle a lot of gross things. But, honestly, mucus pushes me to my limits. And this was like no mucus I had ever seen before. This … had a life of its own. That monstrous tentacle of slime swayed dangerously back and forth … just taunting me.

I. Was. Terrified.

But this was my child, and I would show no fear. I hitched up my yoga pants and went in.

Like a slow-motion scene from an action movie, I dropped my son’s soapy clothes in the sink, grabbed a tissue, reached over to contain the foul mess, just as the entire hanging mass of mucus—booger and all—accidentally got inhaled RIGHT INTO HIS MOUTH.

Time stopped. Our eyes locked. We exchanged a silent, “What the fuckity-fuck?!” Okay, that might have been me, but my son conveyed the little boy equivalent.

And then, my son began to gag. I knew precisely what was coming. LIKE A NINJA, I grabbed the bathroom wastebasket and shoved it right in front of his face. Just. In. Time. My son puked the ginormous glob of snot—and his entire breakfast—into the trash can. All of this—ALL OF IT—while pooping on the toilet.

A trifecta of bodily fluids. If it hadn’t been so repulsive, I would have said it was a beautifully choreographed piece of performance art.

Heart racing, I looked at my son who was staring back at me with a betrayed look in his eyes, as if to say: “Mom. You never prepared me for this scenario.” And I was shaking my head slowly, trying to catch my breath, thinking, “My husband had better get me something shiny for this one.”

My son and I both walked out of that bathroom despondent and wounded. We had become different people—scarred from the epic battle we fought together.

Once I recovered, I knew I needed to do my motherly duty and address the real issue. My son and I had a long discussion about when to trust a fart. And when not to. The difference between air pressure … and the pressure from a solid mass.

But this is a difficult skill to master when you’re only four years old, and my son had more than a few accidents during the process. Worn down from the war on sharts, I eventually threw my hands in the air and gave him the best advice I could think of, “Just go sit on the toilet every time you need to fart.”

I read this story at Listen to Your Mother Portland on May 7, 2015. Watch it now!

Photo Credit: IKO / 123RF Stock Photo

Share Me!

17 Responses

    1. You’ll have to report back. I can’t watch it. But I am very much looking forward to watching yours!

    2. Oh. My. God. Just two days ago my husband and I were debating The Shart. He insisted that all people have the struggle of knowing when to trust a fart. I insisted that the only people we know who have claimed to fall victim are men so apparently it’s only that sex who are too boneheaded enough to be able to tell the difference between gas and solid.

      Tonight, as I prepared dinner I started reading this story, laughing maniacally, and we reopened the debate after I paused reading the beginning to tell him the subject. He claimed victory, “See? It’s a legitimate struggle!” I suggested that guys are just too comfortable farting in public and since they seem incapable of distinguishing a fart vs. a shart they should excuse themselves like a civilized person and go camp out in the bathroom- sitting on the toilet if need be.

      I read the story out loud so he could laugh too AND THERE IT WAS! The same advice! I feel like at 4.5 months pregnant I’ve officially achieved Mom Status. I claim the victory!

      Also, I’m so impressed that you kept your own breakfast down, because just reading the story had me regretting eating dinner at the same time…

    1. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I looked RIGHT AT MR. FOXY when I read that line during the show. He’s on notice.

    1. Sadly the only shiny thing was inhaled and then barfed into the garbage can. I demand a do-over! WAIT. No, I don’t.

  1. Hahaha! This has got me making snorting noises at my desk, which means I’ve just been caught not working. Ah well. It was totally worth it.

    For the record, ‘Shart’ has long been one of my favourite words. Sadly, as a man without the exclusively female ability to always tell the difference I’ve fallen foul of them on occasion.

    Still, makes great blogging material!

  2. Does your son remember this? It sounds like one of those stories that the whole family will laugh about and tell often. Those are the best.

  3. I throw those underpants and onesies caked in blow-out in a triple layered grocery bag. Could never scrub them out, you are the better woman!!

Uh oh...copying isn't permitted. Contact me if you'd like to share my content.