This made me so happy. Laugh out loud, nod my head, and do little happy flutter kicks with my feet happy.
Read this post from”Breed ’em and weep”:
It germs, my dears
I am starting to wonder about my parenting style. I know I slap a lot of Purell on their hands, I know this is a house where sick dogs do unspeakable things to floors, which makes me a mother who screams, DON’’T GO IN THE KITCHEN WITH YOUR BARE FEET! TERRIBLE THINGS ON THE FLOOR! YOU DON’’T EVEN KNOW!
The topic of the day is germophobic parenting, my dears.
I think I have always fallen on the slightly germophobic side of the fence, but becoming a mom has sort of sent me over the edge and off into crazy territory. I think it all started back when the carpet was installed…laid…put down. Ok, back when they covered the wood floors with carpet. They actually completed the job mere hours before I went into labor with Briar, but that’s another story.
Anyway, just before they finished the carpets, the guys redoing the hardwood floors arrived–
I know, what the hell were we thinking?
Did I mention the new roof?
Ya, we’ve never really excelled at the whole concept of calmly plotting and planning and making sure we don’t bite off more than we can chew.
Sean argued that to focus on a baby he would need for all the house stuff to be done before the arrival of said baby.
I said he needed to calm the bleep down so our marriage lasted to delivery.
He said to truly relax and be with the baby I needed to let him do this.
I argued he needed to let me help.
He argued I couldn’t.
I said he was a jerk.
He said that was fine, I still couldn’t do anything.
I went and did things like peeling off wallpaper in another room when he sent me away…oooh did that make him mad! But it was never worth it.
I always ended up with “peeler’s remorse” or “starter’s remorse.” It was pretty hard to deny that I shouldn’t have been doing what I was doing when I’d realize I had half a wall’s worth of wallpaper stuck to the bottom of my bump that I was going to need help removing and a raging fire hot ache in my crotch from my body holding the baby in while I contorted my body for the sake of home renovating. But I was just so bored and tired of being on the sidelines. We compromised and did everything while frequenetly acknowledging that we were trying to do too much.
So after gutting the entire upstairs, rewiring, sheetrocking, painting, etc we brought in the professionals to handle the floors and plumbing. I spread old sheets on the floor to cover the carpets as the floor guys ran up and down the stairs with their boots literally caked with laquer or shelack or whatever the hell you call the stuff you put on hardwood floors to kill all winged insects within 5 miles, incinerate nose hairs and make you feel a very hard to supress desire to gouge out your own eyeballs. Fumes be damned, I was going to protect that carpet so our baby would have a plush, sanitary, carpeted play area nirvana. How futile I would learn it all was.
We ordered furniture because literally, what we had were Coleman camp chairs, a queen size bed and very tired, ready to be put out of its misery faux leather furniture from Sean’s college days. And when I say camp chairs and a queen size bed, I mean camp chairs and a queen size bed were what we had for people to sit in. Yup, they were right there in the living room. The cup holders made ’em classy.
Sean thought we needed stuff for people to sit in when they came to visit the baby, which was true and an exciting side note is that since my water kind of broke (Ya, ‘kind of broke’, apparently there are actually two levels of water breaking, who knew?) Sean threw his hands up in a, “Fine, after 9+ months of holding you back, I give!” He let me unwrap the sofa and arrange it myself.
But I have gone so far off where I meant to go with this. Let me get back to the germs. The nasty, evil, impossible to conquer germs. Ever since we brought Briar home I have wanted to provide a clean, wholesome environment in which she can play, sleep, and grow. Granted, since discovering the magic of the circle under the cat’s tail (talking about the anus here folks, it’s not just a forwarded email you get, kids are fascinated with the butt holes of animals. Jesus it’s exhausting)
No honey, mama said don’t touch.
No, put your fairy wand away, that will hurt the kitty.
Barnaby doesn’t want that in there.
Leave the dog’s boo boo alone.
Honey, mama said no, if you do that again Ella won’t be able to go poopin’ in the backyard.
STOP. Mommy said no touch!”
“Owie. It hurts. It hurts a Ella in’air.”
“That’s right honey, touching Ella there could hurt her in there.”
I tried establishing a “No Shoes on in the House” rule. Ya, people just don’t respect that.
Sean made this wonderful little sign with a stamp print of Avery’s 30 minute old foot and put it on the front door.
“Would you mind taking off your shoes?”
“Oh, ok. Oh look, Ella. Hi baby dog.”
“Aw, could you just take off your shoes, and please, don’t say hello to Ella yet I have to put her in—
Damnit, too late. She peed on the floor.
“Oh, that’s ok, c’mere sweetie. Let’s go in the kitchen.”
“But. Your shoes. Please.”
And instead of removing them they fast tiptoe across the floor. What the hell? Moving faster is going to make the 87,000 different kinds of fecal matter, oily street funk and who-knows-what-else not smear across the floor? If you tiptoe does that somehow counteract the fact that your hundred plus pounds of human being is pressing down upon your outside shoes on our inside floor? Do you want to lick that? Do you understand that our children will? Do you not care at all about what I am asking? Can you please help me not to explode and scream with all the rage I am feeling towards you right now?
Cut to the corner of the room and witness the dog burying her face in her canine lady parts, smacking her lips and then licking our daughter’s face.
“Gawd, Ella stop it. Sean. Damnit. She’s licking. She, aw, gawd.”
It is a never-ending, exhausting, and ultimately losing battle that I am waging.The fact is no one cares as much as I do about what the kitty is tracking when he hops on the kitchen counter and walks delicately, tiptoes even, from one end of the counter all the way across the oven past the sink and over to the far end where he jumps across the kitchen and on to the butcher block.
“Honey, he’s gonna get up there. Cats walk on counters.”
“I realize that in other people’s homes it is fine for cats to walk on counters, but damnit he turned a chipmunk inside out, licked his ass hole and drank from the toilet today. And those are only the things that I saw first hand, God knows what he did for the other 18.5 hours. I just don’t want that on our counters.”
As I am ranting with what I am sure can only be described as a maniacal glint in my eyes I am 100% aware of the fact that I have crossed over into Bill Murray in Caddyshack territory. I am just not going to win this one. All I ask is that the people coming into our house have the decency to allow me to chase my own Quixotic dreams in my house. Call me crazy when you leave, shake your head, be offended I really don’t care, but damnit take your shoes off and swat the damn cat if you see him on the counter.