We had some kind of nasty virus going around our house last week. Needless to say, I spent a goodly amount of time cleaning up vomit. Why is it that kids never get a stomach bug after eating chicken soup, or vanilla ice cream, or any other bland item that would match the carpet? It always has to be right after eating spaghetti washed down with pink Kool-aid or red licorice with orange soda. Okay, maybe I just answered my own question.
At any rate, Monday morning I was awakened by the distinct sound of a six-year-old hurling leftover pizza all over beige carpet. It landed right next to the green oil stain from hubby’s power saw. (Don’t ask.)
My sister-in-law pointed out to me that you never feel more like a mother than when you are cleaning up your child’s puke. I almost agree. I feel slightly more like a mom when they actually throw up on me.
As a teenager if that had happened I would have run through the house, tearing off my clothes and yelling for disinfectant. Now, I look at my newly christened clothing and say, “Great! I always thought these jeans would look better with a pinkish tint to them!” I even clean up the kid before I clean up myself. Now that is motherly love!
Really though, it isn’t the bodily fluids that make me feel most like a mother. It is looking around the dinner table and realizing that all of these people are MY children!
When I was growing up I couldn’t wait to have children of my own. Now, here they are, slurping their milk, eating mashed potatoes with their fingers, and holding burping contests. Now that I think about it, my lovely children have such pitiful manners that dinner at our house could be a stunt on the television show, Fear Factor.
“Yes, I ate live squid dipped in curdled mayonnaise!”
“Yes, I allowed you to lower my half nude body into a coffin full of hungry rats!”
“Yes, I crawled across a small steel beam at an outrageously dangerous height while using my teeth to pull a stubborn dog on a leash as rain was pouring on my, again, half-nude body!”
” NO! NO! Don’t make me eat dinner with that family! Anything but that! I give! I quit! I can’t take it anymore!”
Okay, maybe it’s not that bad, but I do need to set aside some time to work with my kids on etiquette.
My mother worked hard to teach me proper table manners. She was afraid that I would either get invited to the White House and not know which fork to use, or that I would have dinner for the first time with my future in-laws and my fiance’s mother would be disgusted by my lack of manners.
The first time I had dinner at my in-laws’ I had to smile at the thought of them being disgusted with my manners! Yeah, that’s a real hoot! I had never seen anyone drink straight from a 2-liter bottle or fish pickles out of the jar with their fingers.
My mother-in-law, bless her heart, is very proper and engaging, but she gave birth to three boybarians. Having a son of my own, I now realize that it would be easier to pull teeth than to teach a boy to hold his fork properly. It seems I am constantly giving my son instructions at the dinner table.
“Sit up straight. Don’t hover over your plate. Use a napkin instead of your sleeve. Use a napkin instead of your sister’s sleeve! Quit kicking the table. Don’t gargle your tea. Get the carrot sticks out of your nose. Stop using your fork as a Civil War reenactment tool. Save some for everybody else. No, you can’t be excused. No, the dog won’t eat your salad. Quit running laps around the table. That’s enough salt. No dessert until you eat your vegetables. Sit down. Stop whistling and eat your food. Sit back down! Get the cat bones off the table. Sit up. Sit down. Turn around! You’re hunching again. It doesn’t matter what’s in it, just eat! I don’t care if you’re not hungry. No, I don’t want to hear you burp to the tune of Jesus Loves Me. How did you get lasagna behind your ear? Is that chocolate pudding on your eyebrow? Hey, didn’t you hear them say, ‘Don’t try this at home?’ Get your fingers out of your plate. Get your fingers out of your sister’s plate. Get your fingers out of MY plate!”
It just goes on and on and by the end of the meal, I am exhausted! No wonder by the time my husband and his brothers were teens their poor mother had surrendered. Who could live with that kind of pressure? After a while you just pray that if your kids ever do get invited to the White House for dinner, you will already be dead so that you don’t have to suffer national humiliation. And hopefully, if they throw up, it will be in the Red Room so no one will notice.
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