The time has come, fellow perfectionists, to leave me behind. If only for a little awhile. Save yourselves. Don’t look back. Don’t cry for me, Argentina.

As a wee, pink, squalling freshly baked potato, the gross stuff like spit up and poop weren’t so bad in the scent department. She really just smelled faintly of milk and I don’t know if it’s an evolutionary trait or what so that I didn’t leave her in a tree somewhere but I kind of liked it? I imagine it’s like a dog peeing on a favorite bush. “Ah, yes. This is mine. Mine mine mine NOT YOURS mine.”

Well we’re eight months old now and let me just go ahead and clarify that the gross things are no longer not gross. They are in fact gross gross. Spit up and breastmilk poo? NOPE. Shit and vomit, folks. We are in shit and vomit territory.

While pregnant I would read stories of newborn butt canons, shooting whatever color in whatever direction HIDE YO KIDS HIDE YO WIFE NO ONE IS SAFE. Others were laughing, I was breaking out in a cold sweat. Poopsplosions were OCD nightmare fuel. I have since been incredibly meticulous and it was only just a few days ago that actual poop touched my actual skin for the first time. It was the tiniest swipe on my thumb but alarms rang in my head.

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT. NOT A DRILL. Ok, breathe Rachel. Remember your training. Simply place her in her crib, calmly walk to the bathroom, and very gently pour the kerosene and light yourself on fire.”

I lived to tell the tale. So, yeah – old habits die hard. The only poopsplosions she’s had have been at daycare in her disposable diapers. This year at Thanksgiving when we go around the table to say what we’re grateful for, I will point to that. Glory be to God in the highest.

(I’d like to take a pause here because at this point I’ve said “poopsplosion” twice. Ain’t motherhood grand? You know, if I close my eyes and take a deep inhale of my coffee/saltedcaramelmochawhoarewekiddingitsgrownuphotcocoa I can just barely remember the days when I was academically inclined. I read books. I wrote essays. I thinked big thoughts with my head brain. Rest in peace, Smart Rachel.)

Poop. I still stay very far away from poop. Vomit though? I’ve lowered my standards for vomit.

A few nights ago, Andrew brought Rosalyn from her crib into our bed. I lovingly pulled her into my arms to lovingly kiss her forehead. And then she yakked all over my left side. And promptly fell back asleep in it. You are so gross, kid. I think your get it from your father. I urgently whispered to him, “Oh my god, oh my god get a towel she just threw up everywhere.”
“Shit. Should we change her?”

“Um maybe? I mean, she’s asleep so…”

So, no. No we won’t be changing her. Or me apparently because the next course of action taken was to blindly dab the towel around us and then GO BACK TO SLEEP. I slept in vomit shirt.

And the next day while getting ready for bed?


About an hour later I caught a whiff and realized that smell was coming from my shoulder. “Ew,” I thought, “that’s gross.”

Yeah, Rachel. That’s gross. You know what’s grosser? I didn’t take it off then either! I slept in it, again. And it should be noted this was no longer at 2am when bad decisions are easily forgiven. No, this was at 8pm when you are still firmly planted in Adults Make Good Decisions Land.

I no longer make good decisions.

So that’s it. This will serve as my formal two week notice for my position as a Perfectionist. It’s not you, it’s me. It is, embarrassingly, all me.

And maybe a little bit her, as well.

One thought on “gross

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