Not for Sissies

Several years ago, someone asked me which element of parenthood, in my opinion, had been the most unexpected. I have to confess, I drew a complete blank. A dozen different things came to mind - all of which had been unexpected at one time, but had since become such a way of life that none of them currently seemed like that big a surprise.

Over the past month, however, one recurring theme has caused me to reconsider this assessment, and to realize there is something that continues to surprise me on a weekly, and even daily, basis. It looks ridiculous to write it out, but here it is anyway: one of the biggest surprises about parenthood is how 1)gross and 2)physically painful it can be! (and I'm not referring here to labor, delivery or breastfeeding)

I was prepared to love my children more than life itself; I expected to be challenged emotionally, mentally, and spiritually by them, especially as they grew older. I knew each addition would significantly alter our family dynamic. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. What I wasn't prepared for was how much time I would spend cleaning up really gross messes, and the number of times I would get beat up by the producers of these messes.

Every day for the past several months - well, pretty much since Malachi was born, I guess - I have spent a large percentage of each day on my hands and knees scrubbing POOP out of the carpet, off the bathtub, out of Malachi's pants, Malachi's legs and yes, even Malachi's neck. I've cleaned PUKE off the floor, the beds, their clothes, my clothes, and Malachi's neck. I continually wipe thick green snot out of crusted nose holes and wipe three bottoms at least twice daily. (I know . . . I've been trying to get Zeke to do his own paperwork for months now, but let's just say he's not very thorough.) I got really depressed yesterday just thinking about all the minutes and hours of my life I've spent during the past six years, just cleaning up bodily fluids.

But now for the "physical pain" aspect, which has pretty much surprised me more than anything. Since Rachel's babyhood, Danny and I have: had fingers shoved up our noses until it brought tears to our eyes; received dozens of bruises from being used as human teethers; been kicked (accidentally) in the shins; tripped I don't know HOW many times over little bodies standing right behind us; had our heads used as drums and our backs used as trampolines; received actual black eyes and fat lips from surprisingly hard heads being flung back in our faces. Danny has had leg hairs pulled out by the handful. And apparently, the loose, wrinkly skin on the battlefield that used to be my stomach is ideal for pulling, pinching, and generally abusing (usually followed by a comment such as, "Wow Mom - your tummy looks like mashed potatoes.").

And then there was yesterday, where we combined all of this into one fun-filled package. I had just cleaned up another blowout - we're talking all the way down the leg - and stood Malachi up beside the tub so I could wipe the last remnants of the mess off his back. He decides it would be great fun to pee on the bathtub, floor, and me. I yell, pick him up, and run him out to the living room to wipe him off again. I re-enter the bathroom, and end up sliding across the floor, out of control, due to his previous incident, which I hadn't had a chance to clean up yet. I end up half-falling into the bathtub with him still in my arms. Fortunately, he isn't hurt, but now my arms and chest are soaked, and so are my legs, which have pretty much mopped up the mess on the floor. I get changed, wash him, brush everyone's hair (his was the last bath), get him out of the bathtub and lay him down to put a fresh diaper on him. At which point he decides to pee all over me once again. It strikes him funny, so he laughs and does it again. I think he likes hearing me yell.

Please don't misunderstand: I LOVE parenting, and am often overwhelmed with gratitude at these gifts that have been entrusted to my care. But I am considering purchasing, and wearing, some full-body armor for the next several years! And somehow, I just have to trust that in the midst of wiping up really gross messes, I am glorifying Christ - IF I do it without grumbling and complaining! And of course the trade-off is all the bear hugs and the "I love you Mom"'s, and ultimately - dream of all dreams and prayer of all prayers - watching them one day surrender their lives to Christ Jesus.

And now . . . I'm being summoned to wipe another bottom.