After I became a mom, it was glaringly obvious that a very important gene was absent from my DNA. Until that time, I had hoped it was there, but just sat dormant until I had children. If you’ve read many of my posts, I bet you’re thinking, “Lady, there’s a lot that’s not right with your genetic composition.”
Growing up, I was the one who squealed, while covering my eyes, during the shark attacks in Jaws. If I opened my eyes too soon and saw the murky red water, my stomach lurched and I immediately regretted eating an entire package of Red Vines.
In high school Biology class, we watched a film of a hip replacement surgery. Well, I mostly doodled in my notebook, glancing up occasionally to see what made my classmates utter, “cool” and “check that out!” I regretted my surrender to curiosity and skipped lunch that day because the pizza looked too much like what I saw on the video.
I feared having children because I sensed I wouldn’t be able to tolerate their grossness. Just the thought of cleaning up whatever came out of either end made my stomach curl into a ball and do a somersault in my belly. Imagining the appearance and smell caused my throat to constrict and my gag reflex to show off its superhuman strength. Other mothers, including my own, assured me that “it’s different when it’s your own children.”
I’m here to tell you (nearly nine years after the birth of my first child): they all lied.
Maybe “lied” is too harsh – but they certainly were wrong. The ability to handle all things disgusting is missing, which is a HUGE disadvantage, considering I’m a mom to two boys.
On Sunday, my older son wasn’t feeling well. He came into the living room and announced, “I don’t feel good.” My hubby knew the translation: the floor’s gonna get it in 2.7 seconds. He ordered our son to get to the bathroom, but sadly, it wasn’t soon enough.
So, on Father’s Day, my hubby got to demonstrate the true meaning of love by cleaning up our tile – twice. I stayed outside of smelling or hearing distance, but my stomach still revolted. I’d like to believe my queasiness was the ultimate show of motherly empathy, but I know it was just me being a wimp. In my defense, I did ask my son if there was anything I could do for him. Does it still count even though I stood around the corner with a towel over my nose?
When the last crisis ended, my hubby asked me what I would’ve done if he hadn’t been there to clean up the mess. “Go to a hotel” was my half-joking response.
Now you know my stomach single-handedly dashed any hopes of med school. What’s your weakest link? Please share – if you don’t have one, I’ll be jealous of you; and jealousy shows the dark circles under my eyes 🙂