People who read this blog and don't have children are going to pray to God for girls.
The problem with me (the only one) is that when my blood sugar gets low, I go psycho. I'm mean, I cry, I can't think clearly and I become convinced of things that don't make sense. When well-fed, I am eternally patient and logical and stuff, but forget to feed me and it's on your head.
Which is to say, I didn't get breakfast today. Or lunch, really (I tried to eat leftovers, but as always happens, Nathan was eating lunch and ate my food as well as his.) So when I was trying to do the dishes at 1 something, you can't blame me for letting Nathan play with the screen door, which sticks out a little from the door frame, leaving a couple inches of gap open to the front porch. Just enough for tiny arms to fit through. I imagine it would be a little unnerving to be walking by and notice tiny arms grabbing at the bricks and front mat, out from under the door. Nevertheless, It keeps him entertained and there's no harm in a front stoop, right?
So I washed and every 15 seconds (maybe every 25 seconds), I looked over to make sure he hadn't gone elsewhere. When he got bored and crawled over towards the dog's water bowl, I stopped him in plenty of time, only to notice he'd dragged in a funny looking leaf with him. Upon closer inspection, I realized (I cannot describe my horror) that it was the thorax of a particularly dead cockroach. It's legs and head were missing.
Poor Nathan. I grabbed him so fast and shoved my fingers in his mouth (at no other time would I ever willingly search a dark cavity for cockroach parts). I pulled out a leg.
My son ate a cockroach. This is SO much worse than the time he ate the spider. It was funny when he ate the spider. Cockroaches are never funny.
Imagine my face all screwed up and grimacing and nauseous. That's what I look like as I write this post. It gets even more grimacy with every "cockroach" that I type.
Does it make me less of a horrible, failure of a mother that I feel sick to my stomach about it?
MOST moms can leave their eyes off their 9 month-old for more than twelve seconds without said baby consuming a bug.
While sitting in the pharmacy last week, waiting for a couple prescriptions for the Bridge Troll, I chatted with an older Marine about having sons. He paused and said, "So... do you like being a mother?"
I don't suppose that it's such a strange question, but I delayed answering as I thought about the 104-degree fever and the emergency room visit three days prior, of the rash that brought me back to the doctor and had me sitting, waiting for medicine. I thought about how both times he's teethed, he pushed two teeth out at once, making everyone miserable. I thought about the spider. The way he glories in trying to eat dog food and splashing Henry's water all over the floor.
My answer is this. I don't necessarily love being a mom. I mean... I used to have things like sleep and manicured nails (well I could have) and time to read books. But I love being Nathan's mom. I love the way he grabs my shirt and shoves his face into my shoulder, giggling ferociously when his daddy makes faces at him. I love how he greets me, standing in his crib, grinning like a maniac when he wakes up. I love how he stands naked, peering into the tub, waiting for me to let him in to the water for bathtime.
I thought about changing the blog name to "Chaos" or "Bridge Troll Diaries", because I only ever write about the chaos that Godzilla Jr. brings to our lives, but I think the name fits. There goes the neighborhood. There goes the white picket fence, the clean floor and the bathing-suit body.
Here comes Nathan.