I was reading a story with my 5-year-old tonight when he wiped a booger on my face. A booger.
This is the part of motherhood I didn’t sign up for.
I didn’t sign up for carpet sniffing episodes. Is that a raisin? A chocolate chip? Please, please be a black bean.
I didn’t sign up to wrestle eye drops into a goopy-pink-eyed wiggly toddler or apply impetigo antibiotic cream inside my son’s nostrils.
I didn’t sign up for discovering historic sippy cups full of last week’s chunky milk hiding in the block bin.
I didn’t sign up to ask my child how diarrhea got splattered on the walls and being told, “It happened when I shook it off my hands.”
Last week I declared it was time for a Hose Meeting. For anyone in our home owning a hose, attendance was mandatory. This included the 40-year-old husband, the 5-year-old son, and the 3-year-old son. I lined them up in the kitchen and calmly told them their hoses were supposed to help them aim for the water inside the toilet bowl. Not whatever they were doing that left yellow drips everywhere else in the bathroom. Obviously, I don’t have a hose, but can it really be that hard?
I’m hoping this phase of parenting is like childbirth. Maybe someday I’ll look back and say, “That really wasn’t so bad.”
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