Ah, all of those enjoyable and delightful tasks that no one ever really warned you about when telling you just how much more love would permeate our home once we brought our beautiful child into this beautiful world.

Granted, our daughter has brought forth an unending stream of love and silliness and joy and laughter and now seems completely prepared for teenagehood, as a kindergartner.

But I don’t recall the warnings about vomit cleanup (or any other excreted substances, for that matter).

I mean, folks were quick to point out that I would be tired all the time and feel sick a lot; true, true. But this vomit-cleanup thing, don’t recall it.

And I’m talking about that chunky, healthy, too-big-for-the-drain puke. The real stuff. I’m talking about needing to double-wash the clothes and the sheets and the stuffed animal and blankie she won’t sleep without (that has retained that vomit odor a full 48 hours after the fact). Please do excuse my slightly graphic writings, but I really wanted you to get some “local color” as they say in comparative literature courses.

So at what point do we - the parents - get the deserved appreciation or payback; ever?

Not that I want a ticker tape parade, but will we ever feel that the endless nights we stay awake, and the butt-wiping and cooking and cleaning and overall devotion to their well-being; is the sheer joy of parenthood just so darn immense that we do all of this because our little ones are just so precious that it’s *worth* it?

Yeah, it probably is.