I think that every parent has their war stories. The ones you share with friends to get a good laugh, the ones you bust out over and over again, because they're just that good, and you're so glad that they are now a distant memory. Some war stories are harder to relive (i.e. babies in the NICU, ER visits, close calls) others are easier (i.e. food & potty mishaps) and some are just flat out hilarious.
I have a modest collection of such war stories. Nothing that would capture the attention of a news crew or Oprah, but they are my stories and that's what makes them special. They are a collection of the suffering I have been through as Logan, Jack & Wyatt's mom. They represent my martyrdom. The things I have done for my children.
{Or in front of my children.}
Like two weeks ago when I woke up, had a big glass of apple juice that totally hit the spot... Until it didn't. And I wound up puking the contents of my stomach into our assigned "choking bowl" in front of both Jack & Logan as Jack cheered, "Get the yuckies out, mommy! Get the yuckies out!"
Or when, for a few months at the beginning of this pregnancy, Logan would walk around (anywhere) gagging randomly because that's what I had been doing for weeks on end thanks to my morning sickness. He would gag the most, though, when brushing his teeth, just like mommy.
There's also my handful of kitchen messes. They are a favorite when trying to elicit a laugh from the crowd.
We had just gotten home from the river and I was bustling about unpacking things and getting the house together while Josh showered when I hadn't heard from the boys in a while. (They were about a year old.)
I went searching and found them in the laundry room with the pantry door open, and an entire bottle of vegetable oil cracked open and pouring onto the floor and my children. Logan only had a little on his hands, but Jack was covered. Completely.
I had no idea where to start, so instead of doing anything, I grabbed the video camera. And I recorded Jack trying to stand up while greased to his armpits with oil. The footage is priceless and it gave me a minute to move past my frustration and just laugh. I still giggle when I think of it. (Click
here to see the video for yourself.)
Then there's the time I wanted to take a shower (by myself) when Josh wasn't home. I could hear the boys fighting and yelled to them from the shower to go in the kitchen and make some eggs, thinking they would go into their play kitchen, get their play eggs and their play pan and have some fun.
But oh no, they did not go in their kitchen. They went into my kitchen. They found my real eggs, and my real pan, and my real spatula and my real ketchup. And they made those real eggs right on the kitchen floor for me. Their hands and feet were covered in sticky yellow yokes. And could I yell at them? Not really. I was the idiot who told my two year olds to make eggs while I was washing my hair...
And of course there was the night Josh and I had our first "parenting" argument. Logan was probably about three months old, and Josh was on night duty. Logan would.not.stop.crying no matter what Josh did. I eventually awoke and headed into the living room to see what was up. Josh said Logan had been fed and changed and screamed just as loudly when being held as when laying in the playpen, so he just let him lay in the playpen. I argued that Logan was "building trust" and that he needed to know that Josh was going to be "there for him" when he needed him. Josh insisted that his stress level was pretty high and that if he held Logan it would most certainly not calm Logan down.
We were in a standoff.
So I sacrificed my sleep to hold a wailing Logan and sent Josh to get some much needed rest (and a break from the screaming.) I now realize that the middle of the night is not the time to quote child development books to your husband...
Lesson learned.
Last night was a new first.
Now we've had our share of throw up this year. In fact, the boys are onto their THIRD bout of the flu since October. We're talking fevers, vomit, diarrhea, low appetite, whining, tummy aches, headaches, body aches and a serious case of "not enough mommy to go around."
So last night, at about 2:30am, I heard knocking. I went in and tucked a feverish Logan back into bed, assuring him that the medicine would make him feel better soon. Around 3:00am I heard more knocking. Louder, more intense. I went in and found Jack, shaking and moaning, standing in the doorway. I took him in my arms and we rocked in the rocking chair. Meanwhile, Logan woke up (again) and wanted to join us.
(Picture this, please- I am seven months pregnant, my belly is growing larger everyday, yet there I was rocking two near three-year-olds, one on each knee, in the tiny rocking chair that's crammed into the corner of their bedroom.) Jack snuggled into my chest, hugging his bubba, and then he coughed a little. No big deal. He threw up last night, but was fine all day, so I wasn't worried. Then I heard that sound. It's unmistakable. Like a quiet urp, and then I knew- this was not good.
He started puking, and I swear to God it was like a fire hose, aimed right at me. I was soaked from my neck to my hips. Logan jumped right down, and obeyed my command to bring me the choking bowl. When Jack finally stopped for air, I was able to get him aimed away from me and into the bowl.
Unable to move, really, without spreading the mess, I told Logan to knock loud and call for Daddy. So he started knocking with his chubby little hands and shouting, "Daddy! Wake up! Jack's choking in the bowl!" Sure enough, it did the trick and Josh came to the rescue. He changed Jack and got him a drink while I got cleaned up and attempted to save the rocking chair from further damage.
Oh, what a night.
Then, when the boys were finally asleep, and I climbed into bed, I felt like I could still smell it. Like it was in my nose, and nothing I could do was getting it out. Finally I put on some super-duper scented lotion and drifted off.
And now today I am pretty sure I have PTSD from the whole thing because every time I hear one of them cough, my whole body is alerted and I FLY to them, choking bowl in hand, screaming, "Do you need to throw up???"
Somehow the retelling of our war stories lessens the horror of them.
It also makes the daily mishaps or headaches seem less severe.
Because really, anything compared to warm vomit on your chest at three in the morning is a walk in the park!
