Work It, Dad!
with Avi Spivack
Hi, I'm Avi, and I try to put the work and the dad together, with mild success. This is all about trying to give you a view from what it looks like on the dad-man's side of the world, and I hope you find my ruminations humorous because I try not to take myself too seriously.
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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.
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I went from being That Girl - That Girl that would throw up herself the moment someone nearby started to gag - to being That Mom - That Mom Covered in Vomit.
I have held a projectile vomiting child to my chest and allowed her to vomit down my shirt in order to avoid having it hit the furniture or carpet. I have caught vomit in my hands (and, unwittingly, in my hair). I have washed every set of bed linens for said child twice in one day - along with every toy and blanket that she won’t be without.
In fact, now that I think of it, it was because a friend of ours (childless) happened to watch one of the Down the Blouse vomit sessions that we ended up gifted with a free used washer and dryer set.
I’m pretty sure that I don’t own a single shirt that hasn’t, at some point, been puked on - that bilious liquid and the chunky variety.
I think that our reward, ultimately, comes when we see our children make it to adulthood as whole, healthy people - sound of mind and body. I know my own mother did the same for me and somehow, I have retained that sense of trust and comfort and still call her whenever I’m sick.
Perhaps when your pride and joy calls you, whimpering with the flu, at age 34, you will have your reward. All of those Vomit Cleanup Details cemented her trust that, no matter how gross, no matter how tiresome the task, you were always (and will always still be) there.
Phe | September 11th, 2009 at 3:09 pm
Maybe our reward will come the day our kid learns to puke always, only in the toilet and clean it up herself?
But it is funny how “oh well” puke becomes when it’s spewing out of our own darlings.
SKL | September 11th, 2009 at 7:32 pm