Woo Hoo!
Okay. I'm trying to come to grips with it: I am officially a bad mother. That's right, I said it. Feel free to cry, gossip, even laugh at my expense. Really, I encourage it. I would if I were you. But I can't keep it in any longer; I've got to come clean. I'm ready to tell all.
I try my best, I really do! But every once in a while, say, six or seven times a day, I realize I've done something else that warrants some sort of accolade for my ingenuity in the field of child-ruining. For example, the other day I was gazing fondly at my first born's lovely smile when it dawned on me, it had been almost a week since I had BRUSHED HIS TEETH! Seriously, no crap! Like four and a half, practically five days. So, a business week. Eeeewww! So there, bad mom.
Another example? Let's see. Sunday evening we went fishing. Matt, of course, was focused on the technical aspects of the event, while Gabe and I were chilling a few yards away on a rock. As Jesse tinkered between his dad and me on the edge of the bank an inch or so into the pond (a prime example of fine parenting itself), one of his sandals came loose and flipped off his foot. Fearing the mud (curiously), Jesse insisted I retrieve the shoe for him and replace it on his foot. Fine. He'd probably slip into the water anyway if he tried to get it by himself, I decided. So I clumsily leaned forward with a ninety pound four month old on my lap and stretched forward and grabbed the shoe. By this time J was up on the rock next to me awaiting the reunion with his footwear so he could get back to his maternal heart attack-inducing games. Matt was too busy to care what was happening, so I did my best with my one free hand to shove J's foot into the sandal while keeping all three of us balanced on the rock, which I actually managed successfully. What I didn't notice was that while I was doing all that Gabey had lurched forward and grabbed a hold of Jesse's other shoe, and was conducting a study on how many different species of swamp-AIDS a human subject can contract from eating shoe mud. Great. See? The scope of my unique parenting skills reaches to both my children. Heaven help us all if we get a third.
I'm thinking of renaming Jesse Bruise-face. It's got a nice ring, huh? Besides, we're from Utah. We can call our kid whatever we want. We're naming the next one Thistle Rainwater or maybe Tropical Meconium. Umm. Sounds like a new Jamba flavor. Ooh! Exotica Vomitus. She could invent a fragrance and name it after herself. Anyway...
What the heck's up with this? Perhaps there's some preventive superpower I'm missing, but I can't seem to stop it in time. It seems like every time I change a diaper, the kid's hand is drawn strait to the... shall we say, contaminated portions. And my gosh, if it just stopped there I could live with myself. But good heavens, (That's right, I'm gonna say it) it shoots directly from that area into his freaking mouth! And somehow I never see it coming! It seems like by the time I can spit out a disgusted "Get your hand out of ther-" it's already inside his little yap, causing me to wince at not only the situation at hand, but also the horrific reality that in a matter of minutes I will have forgotten this whole thing and will be enthusiastically receiving my loving baby's kisses. On the lips. Oh man...
You know, maybe I should just call Jesse Crack-face, cause I just looked over and saw his nose burried deeply in his brother's naked butt crack, taking a big whiff. Furthermore, he proceeded to blow what I like to call a facefart (also known as a raspberry or zurbert) on the baby's ample tush. Uggghhh.
And YOU first questioned me when I got the award. Silly person.
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