“Mom, smell this…it’s disgusting!”
Really? Here’s the thing…if you smell something…and it’s disgusting…why must you share it with me? Do I really need to smell/look/touch the thing you find revolting? Is there somewhere in my “mom contract” that says that’s my job? Smeller of things that have gone bad in the fridge? Looker of things that defy reason. Toucher of stuff everyone else is afraid of?
My kids are gross.
Last week, The Tall Blonde had a nasty case of ick. I know the signs.
Years ago, I had a goldfish that had it. I remember being grossed out at the murky film and the white spots covering its slimy body. Once I saw it…I didn’t want my fish anymore.
“Look down my throat,” she said.
“You have ick” I thought to tell her but kept it to myself onaccounta the realization that she probably didn’t want to hear the outcome of my fish.
She was sick. And, since she doesn’t live at home…I visited…twice. THAT should have been the extent of what I needed to do now that she’s no longer under my care. Bring smoothies and ice cream…but no…I had to look down her throat until I’d had just about enough (and the ick was beginning to spread)…and well, I kept thinking of that fish. So, I did what any mom would do under the circumstances and insisted she come home where she could curl up in my bed with the dog…then we could go to the hospital when it got even worse…then back home again where I could keep my eye on her.
Eventually, she started to feel better (apparently she had some rare form of strep…which is probably just a nice way of saying she had “ick”) and, she headed back to her apartment where I could take a deep “finally she’s better” breath…just as the other two arrived from their weekend.
“Check out my toe!” Spider-man said upon walking in the house as I was coming up the stairs from running Bones’ “camp laundry” through the washer a SECOND time.
“Are you friggin’ kidding me” I thought to myself? Enough already.
“Toes gross me out” I calmly said as he shoved his foot in my face with the half mutilated toenail from a stub the night before.
“You have ick.” I told him as he proudly presented his toe trophy…my knees getting weak as I looked away. “Put a band-aid on it.”
No one SHOW me anything else, make me SMELL anything else, or make me TOUCH anything gross, disgusting or revolting for at least a month or I swear I’ll do what I did to my fish…and I’ll flush you down the drain!
Ick. Ah, yes. I know it well.
It’s treatable when caught early enough… thank goodness – for your children’s sake – that’s a fact!
Poor fishies. They usually aren’t so lucky.
Here’s to no spoiled dairy products for the remainder of the year!