Iron Mom

They're called baby feeders. My brother introduced me to them when my first nephew was starting solids. Basically, they're a mesh bag that you fill with some kind of soft food and then insert into a ring. You then screw this ring onto a holder and hand it to your baby who then chews and sucks on the bag to get the food out.

These things are such a good idea in theory. Truthfully, Toddler loved hers and Little Hunter is enthusiastically getting the hang of his. 

The problem with these things is that they're utterly gross. When your kid's done with his feeder, there's always food left behind and its your job as a mom is to disassemble the thing and use your hands to clean out the slobbery, slimy, half-chewed mess left behind. Yuck.

While cleaning out Little Hunters slimy, gooey banana feeder today, it occurred to me that the amount of grossness in my life has increased exponentially since having kids. Entering momhood meant having to get over myself and, with dignity and grace, handle things that frankly should require a hazmat team. Or at least someone with a stronger stomach.

While in Florida, Toddler got a stomach bug. Poor little girl threw up for 24 hours straight. She couldn't even brush her teeth without throwing up. I hate throw up. I really really really do. The bug first hit her in the parking lot of a gymnastics gym. She filled her car seat and then started crying. Poor kid. The kindest woman came out of the gym and helped me with paper towels and a trash bag so that I could contain the mess long enough to get back to my in-laws. I never did ask her but I bet that woman had more than one kid. She was unfazed.

I, on the other hand, was fazed. Despite being fazed, I put on my Iron Mom face and gave Toddler a big barfy hug and cleaned her up as best I could. I was nauseated for a good two weeks after that. I KNOW it was all in my head. The only thing wrong with me was me.

Poop in the bath. That's another one that gets me. It happens to all kids in their childhood and as a mom, you can't make a big deal about things like that. Even though your inner diva is screaming "this is so gross, so gross, so gross," your Iron Mom smiles calmly and says, "oh, it's no big deal honey, happens to everyone!" The challenge then becomes quelling the urge to go at your kid with a scrub brush and industrial-strength soap (after you've calmly bleached and scrubbed tub, of course).

Runny Noses! That's another horrible one. Little Hunter has the tail end of a cold. Poor little dude is a runny-nosed mess. I happen to know my mother is grossed out by a runny nose. I've actually seen her gag at the sight of a besnotted kid. I think I inherited that from her. 

I used to have a lot of black clothes. I don't anymore. Baby snot on a dark shirt shows up like evidence under a black light. I change shirts a few times a day now as my little guy uses me as his personal hanky. 

I wonder if this will always gross me out or if one day, I'll wake up with Iron Mom superpowers? Powers to deal with whatever the kids throw at me without having to quell my inner diva.  I sure hope so.