I AM PROTECTIVE

I Am Protective

I’ll go ahead and say it: I’m protective of motherhood. But not in the way you’re thinking. I’m not talking about traditionally treasured mommy moments like baby’s first steps, pictures with the Easter bunny and pre-school graduations.
Nope. I’m protective of the terribly messy or mind-numbingly embarrassing moments that remind us motherhood isn’t all smocked dresses and lollipops. It’s a rough and tumble, full-contact sport.
You know what I’m talking about. Those unforgettable incidents that are downright awful when they happen. But in retrospect are quite hysterical.
When you think about it, you can’t remember which birthday you made the train birthday cake for. But I promise you can remember to the nearest millisecond when your son came out of the dressing room at Target completely naked, right?
So let’s do it. Let’s celebrate all that’s sticky, stinky, humiliating, shocking and totally memorable about motherhood. I’ll go first.
A Real Handful
We live in a small suburban city with a community swimming pool well used by mothers with small children. I can’t remember which summer holiday it was — Memorial Day, Fourth of July or Labor Day — but the pool was packed. When I glanced over to check on my toddler son I saw, with horror, he had pooped in the pool.
Now anyone who’s frequented a community pool knows poop=pool closure. At least for several hours. Not wanting to be responsible for closing the pool on one of the biggest days of summer, I calmly walked over to my son, reached down, scooped up the unmentionable matter with my bare hand, and quickly stashed it away under my crossed arms.
Then I sat — for what seemed like forever — acting as nonchalant as possible with my stinky contraband concealed in my hand. When I finally determined the coast was clear — that the entire gallery of moms wasn’t eyeing me suspiciously — I crept over to my pool bag and deposited my son’s BM into the swim diaper he obviously should have been wearing.
I quickly tore through an entire pack of baby wipes, slathered myself in antibacterial gel, and returned poolside unsettled but oddly proud of the sacrifice I had made for the greater good. The holiday had been saved.
Bug Spray
My son was learning how to “go” standing up. One day, he bopped into our 1920s bungalow bathroom excited about trying his new trick. I waited outside the door until finally I said, “hey, are you okay in there?” After no response, I opened the door to find the beadboard walls and all things porcelain dripping with pee. It was everywhere. He was just standing there, hands in the correct place, urine everywhere but.
“What the?” I gasped.
“There was a mosquito in here,” he said, like that always results in pee dripping down the walls.
“And you tried to pee on it?” I asked in disbelief.
He nodded yes.
“Did you get it?” I asked, not really knowing what else to say at this point.
“Nope,” he said. Pulled up his trousers and walked out. Leaving me — and a mosquito — in the now-yellow bathroom I would spend the next two hours cleaning.
Haircut from Hades
This one took me a bit longer to laugh about. Years, actually.
I was having a frumpy mommy day. I needed something. Surely, I thought, a quick haircut would boost my spirits.
I picked up my son from school and figured he could sit quietly for 10 minutes while I took a brief beauty pit stop at the local quickie cut. You know, with the mirrored wall and glass shelves filled with overpriced products that promise to make your hair look like Kate Middleton’s.
I sat him on the brightly colored bench and surrounded him with books, candy, and an iPhone. What could possibly happen?
The stylist had barely fastened the velcro cape around my neck when my son got up, marched angrily up to the mirrored wall, and with one swipe of his skinny little arm knocked at least 100 bottles of salon-quality products crashing to the floor.
I was able to get to him before he landed a second blow. I began frantically picking up bottles and issuing sincere apologies. Unfortunately, the stylist was less than understanding. She was downright mean.
So I ripped off the smock, gathered up my youngster, threw $20 on the counter, sprinted to the car, and left skid marks as I peeled out of the parking lot.
Now It’s Your Turn
Let’s hear about your most dreadful yet memorable mothering moments. I know you’ve got them. And I know you’d love to share.
You’re probably fully aware of the mischief that can go down on message/comment boards. With that in mind, we’re going to check out the stories before we post them. We’re just trying to keep things nice, clean, and friendly. I’m sure you understand.
So, let’s hear them.

Author

Amy Wright is a freelance writer based in Birmingham, Alabama. She’s a graduate of the University of the South at Sewanee, and has more than 20 years of marketing, advertising, and editorial writing experience. If you bank, use a cell phone, go to a hospital, attend a university, drink coffee, or eat snack cakes in the Southeastern United States, you’ve probably read something she’s written. But her greatest experience, by far, has been the intensely rewarding and truly humbling seventeen years of raising her special needs children with her beloved husband.

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