6. Poop Or Chocolate?

I have become a Hoover. If there was a competition for "who can eat the most bits of food left uneaten by your toddler", I think I would win. I'm not proud of this, but it's a confession I must make. A few days ago, my little person was munching on a Pronutro bar. (Yes, I am aware that there is actual chocolate in it, and I know the super moms will be having panic attacks that feel like heart attacks right now. Maybe that makes me an awful mom, but the child will eat and swallow the snack bars unlike actual Pronutro itself which induces heaving, gagging and sometimes actual vomiting. It's called desperation.) A while after the Pronutro bar eating explosion which always results in bits of crumbly bar everywhere, the child did a poop - I did the usual celebratory "thank you God we've had a poop so now maybe the night won't be so awful" dance. We get very excited about these things in this house. Fast forward a few hours and I found some smooshed up brown substance on her leg. Sanity would say, "WAIT! Is it poop or chocolate?!" But my Hoover nature took over and without even thinking, I picked it off her and shoveled it into my mouth. I am truly sorry if at this point in your reading you heaved a little bit. I think only an absolutely exhausted full time mom could understand my head space. I am intensely grateful to report that the smooshed up brown substance was in fact half masticated Pronutro bar and not poop. It's in these moments you feel like a champion. The way Leonidas stared at the Persian emissary just before shouting "THIS IS SPARTA" and kicking the emissary with the creepy eyes into the bottomless well - you feel almost as victorious as he did right then. 

I constantly tell myself, "It could be worse - I could be addicted to cocaine." Somehow this provides a degree of comfort as I chew on another mini tennis biscuit, slightly soggy from having been sucked on by my daughter and then discarded in her usual fashion, which is to throw said food item away from herself with much force. I used to be a germaphobe. I used to fear the ground and whatever "yet to be discovered virus" it could be housing; I could see it waiting to pounce upon my immune system with vicious force, slowly destroying my body as I became an incubator for the world's most deadly disease. Nowadays, however, when a bottle or dummy (pacifier for any potential American readers) falls on the floor, I have to take one for the team. If there aren't any antibacterial wipes immediately available and my offspring starts wailing like a small donkey that is being starved, I have to do what needs to be done. I have to put the object in my mouth, thus taking the danger upon myself and ensuring that my precious child only deals with my immediate germs. I am acutely aware of the germs contained in a human mouth - thank you Dr Google - but desperate times call for desperate measures. I used to have a little travel spray bottle of Milton that I took with me every time I set foot outside of my home with my baby. But the sheer load of things that have to come with us whenever we venture out has increased exponentially, and to be perfectly honest, the small Barney is more important than the Milton bottle. 

Being a parent is very very hard work. It's far more work than anyone could possibly explain. I wish more people had told me with raw honesty how hard it would actually be. If I had been told, maybe I wouldn't feel such a failure when I find it to be tough. That being said, no one can possibly prepare you for the cosmic explosion of love your heart experiences when the small sleep terrorist smiles at you or says "Mama". I don't think there is anything else on earth quite like those moments. Due to the indescribable love, you do whatever it takes to keep the little person happy AND alive. (Sometimes you have to choose keeping them alive over keeping them happy. For example, when the thought of putting their fingers into a plug socket thrills them to the very core, you have to remove them from that potential happiness because you want them to be alive at the end of today.) I think God made them so ridiculously cute because somehow in the midst of all the sleep deprivation, carb eating madness, on the verge of insanity, how in the Sam Hill am I going to do this again tomorrow, there is always a reset button. They smile at you with their squiff teeth, and it resets your stamina. God is super clever to have provided this particular functionality. So here's to all the parents addicted to coffee and carbs instead of cocaine - you are a champion!