I’d Probably Wipe Your Nose, Too.

Two sticky, snarfing, coughing, dripping, and very moody monkeys flank me. They are watching Caillou patiently waiting for me to write this so they can bang on my laptop keyboard play computer games.  We had an ill-thought-out trip to Target this morning to pick up some supplies for their birthday party on the 27th. In between Nerf handling, the boys got their yucks by throwing loaves of bread on the floor and smacking me in the nose with their new awesome Big Boy Underpants!

(The Big Boy Underpants go with the Big Boy Beds they got. Cars. Toy Story. I don’t know a lot of adults who wear Toy Story Jockeys, but I really think they ought to bring back Underroos for parents.  Oh wait, they do. It’s called Halloween.  How scary do women think they are dressing as “Sexy Cat” or “Sexy Pirate” or “Sexy Wookie”?  Don’t answer. I know how scary I am when I try to dress sexy. And I do the wookie thing naturally…have I mentioned that things like grooming and language go out the window with twin two-almost-three-year-olds?

Also, the B.B.U. are an important part of potty training. The boys turn three next week. One is sorta trained. The other is nowhere near it. I don’t push, but I do dread the inevitable daily calls from nursery school: “J. has a code brown. Again. He’s like clockwork, that one.”)

But I go. I go and wipe the fecal matter off my kid’s behind at school wedged into a tiny bathroom used by 100 drippy kids whose urinary aim is questionable and hand-washing skills nearly non-existent.  I have gotten poop under my nails and on my face. I have spilled pee from a kiddie potty all over myself.

And the barf. I am fairly anti-vomit. I will always find the furthest bathroom and run the water so as not to let anyone know it’s happening to me. For 36 weeks of pregnancy, my biggest labor fear was yakking all over the place. In front of my husband.

I am anti other people’s vomit as well. My brother had a very weak stomach growing up, so a lot of dinners were interrupted by his painful retches in the not-very-well-buffered bathroom off the kitchen. I was and never will be the friend who will hold your hair when you puke. (This may be why I don’t have a lot of gal pals…especially gal pals with long hair, unless it’s in a ponytail).  I WILL be the friend that runs to get you ginger ale when you puke. And a washcloth. Both, preferably, from a store miles a way.

And I hate it when my kids barf. Correction: kid. The mad school crapper has, to this day, NEVER thrown up. Iron gut, that one. However, I do worry that he’s saving it up for when he’s cuddling with me or I’m wearing white. Or my mouth is open.

But his brother, man, that kid has my brother’s stomach. And I clean it up.

I hug my barfy-breathed boy when he’s done. I kiss booger-encrusted cheeks. I cuddle them when they have poops in their pull-ups that make me wonder if they’ve been sneaking out and eating Indian food.

And I suppose if DH barfed I’d help him a la minute.

That’s part of the job description. And I will say that my babies are so very cuddly when they don’t feel well.

Did I mention how much hand sanitizer I got from Target today?

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