My least favorite part about parenthood?
Cleaning up barf.
Without getting into too much unnecessary detail, let's just say that I am on clean-up number four for the day as of the beginning of this entry. I cleaned it up five times for another one of my children last Thursday.
I know it could be worse. I know in essence, I am very lucky at this moment. My boy just has a run-of-the-mill case of the stomach flu. I could be sitting in a hospital room with my child as so many worried parents are this morning.
My internal dialogue this morning consisted of, "Quit your whining, Clare. It could be worse," as I was on my hands and knees, grumbling to myself as I sprayed Resolve, and cleaned up sick off the carpet.
For the fourth time today.
What you don't know about me, is that I have shards of brilliance. I decided put blankets all over the floor in our family room, so that if my son couldn't make it to the bathroom in time, VOILA! The blanket would save me a clean-up. A blanket! The ultimate vomit catcher! I am brilliant!
Except for when my child, in his sprint off the couch, managed to land on the 12 inches of carpet NOT covered by a blanket.
Oh shards of brilliance, why are you so fleeting?
When you become a parent, it's not like all of a sudden you grow this iron stomach. It's not like you're all, "Oh. Someone just barfed/pooped/bled all over me. That's cool. No bigs." Of course you learn to deal, and you grit your teeth, and you breathe through your mouth instead of your nose, and you try so fervently not to let your child see that you are utterly grossed out. Of course it gets a little easier as the years go by and the experience kicks in. Of course your compassionate, protective, mother's heart breaks for your child when he/she is sick.
After all, it's not their fault.
And it's crucial to keep a poker face through the whole thing.
Because it's your job.
For all the wonderful, you can put up with a little yuck.