Want to know what is to great about being me? I have some pretty awesome friends who have some pretty hilarious shit that happen to them. My friend Tammi shared this story with me and asked to share it with all of you! I know in the moment she was hating herself. Once the horror of the moment is gone, we have to laugh at ourselves! It is the only way we will keep our sanity. Ok, the sanity we have left before having kids. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did!
I was in the kitchen, toddler at foot, attempting to get dinner – Tommy Bahama Shrimp Tacos – on the table. This is not the scene I imagined back when I was pregnant. I’m not June Clever in a perfectly pressed apron, I’m a mess, fearfully chopping pineapple as my 16 month old princess screams at my feet. Up, up, UUUPPPPPP!!! “No up” I tell her, which only escalates the situation. Sigh. Next step, shrimp. I peel away the butcher paper, only to discover that the butcher has packaged up SHELLED shrimp, not peeled and deveined. FUCK. FUUUUUCKKK. I’m fairly certain he was a bit too focused on my milk jugs to hear my order properly. I probably should have known when the shrimp rang up at $5.49/lb. Of course they’re on sale, because no one, and I mean no one, orders shelled shrimp. Ok, maybe the childless, or Julia Child, but NOT moms. Ok, NOT me. I stand there, contemplating my options. I could toss the offenders, load up the baby, haul her into the store, and stand in line to pay $19.99/lb for peeled and deveined, or I could tackle these bad boys myself. Option #2 won. As I’m elbows-deep in shrimp poo and salmonella, my toddler who has wondered into the living room, is pushing the button on her toy phone over, and over, and over, and over, and over again, so I feel pretty OK with her being out of my line of vision. Until it wasn’t OK. Until my mom-dar set it. Every cell in her body was made from my body, so when she’s in danger I feel it in my bones. Oh shit. My shrimp-poop-hands and I run, towards the stairs, dripping all the way. My teenage daughter (yes, we have a toddler AND a teenager, two teenagers actually – kill me, right? I mean, “We are so blessed”.), my teenager has left the baby gate open. She’d gone up to clean her room, which is teen-talk for take a nap. The baby is halfway up the stairs, mouth full of…something. Something BIG. In our house, it could be anything from socks to cat poop to batteries, or all three. Shit. Shit. Shit. I have to do it. I shove my shrimpy hands into her mouth and fish out what appears to be an obnoxiously large dried mango. Interesting. We haven’t had dried mango in our home for a very long time. Immediately, she demonstrates that she is displeased with the taste of shrimp poop. In the past, we’ve landed ourselves in the hospital over an egg allergy, and have recently discovered that her body also rejects tofu. I’m not taking any chances with raw shellfish. We run back to the kitchen, I soak a towel with water, but she clamps her jaws shut. The only thing I can think to do is run her mouth under the sink. She squirms violently and I’m basically water-logging her. Then it hits me – BREASTMILK – of course, its magic right? It fixes everything, right? I have her gulp down a few ounces of the magic juice before I realize I’m basically forcing her to swallow whatever bits and pieces are in her mouth. Awesome. Just then, the teenager runs down and asks me, “What are you doing to her?” My reply? “CLOSE THE GODDAMN GATE!” Damnit. Mom of the year, right here. At the end of the day, after all has settled, after a call to poison control – yeah, I went there – I realized something. Something very important that will change the course of my motherhood forever. I realized, I’m not in my 20’s and childless anymore, so why the FUCK am I making shrimp for dinner?
Why Am I Sticky
No comments:
Post a Comment