This is where it gets real, people.
I wasn’t going to blog about this. I wasn’t.
I’ve blogged about angry nipples and vomit cascading down bunk beds, but this seemed, somehow, to cross a line.
But my husband texted, “This is where it gets real.” And if my blog is anything I want it to be real, so here it is. The truth is this: I am not the only one who lives here.
This is not my first kid. The house was thoroughly baby-proofed for the first kid. When he started to crawl the floors were clean. When he started to walk my husband and I were very good about keeping the bathroom door closed.
But there are two more this time. I am severely outnumbered. The floor is a little dirtier and now there are Legos, immense amounts of Legos. If any child dies from choking on a Lego it will be this one. And, then, my daughter started to leave the bathroom door open.
She was doing very well closing it after her, until last week or so. Luckily, my baby has been mostly interested in the bathtub, until today.
Today, I hear my daughter cry, “Baby’s in the bathroom!”
I run in to discover him standing at the toilet bowl mouth stuffed with toilet paper he fished from the water. It had been used to blow a nose, his nose. Does that make it better? I feel like it must. Rest assured, whoever had used the potty last had, thank goodness, remembered to flush, which is not always the case. The wet covered his face, dripped down his chin, and saturated his front with toilet water.
I grabbed him and washed his hands, pried the wad out of his teeth, flushed the potty, closed the lid, screamed a little, and changed his clothes.
I texted my husband, the one with whom I can share my parenting horrors without fear of judgment. He’s met my children. They look like him.
And he texted back, “This is where it gets real.”
The baby will survive. (But, I mean, just in case I’m keeping an eye on him.)
There’s a motto written on an index card hanging by my kitchen sink. It says, “Making dirty things clean.” It helps me to remember in the midst of the endless cleaning that this is the privilege of housekeeping, to perform the tangible illustration with my too physical body, the exhausting task of making dirty things clean into perpetuity. Me and Jesus, all day long, making dirty things clean.
I mean, this is where it gets real; you’re never too dirty to come back.
That’s why my baby just got a kiss on his cheek.