Where the FUNNY CHICKS are at.
Ford, GM and Chrysler – Move Over. Moms are Experts at Cleaning Up The Big Three.
I’m tired of hearing about who’s going to clean up The Big Three.
I’ve been cleaning up The Big Three for decades, and there doesn’t seem to be an end. I’m talking about the REAL Big Three – Poop, Pee and Puke.You’d think there would be a moratorium on cleaning up the Big Three after the age of 50. I’ve raised three kids and done heavy-duty grand babysitting.
That should be sufficient for a pardon. After all, you could get convicted of murder, serve a life sentence and be out of the slammer in less time.
I was never any good with it. When my mom came to help me with my newborn, I made her change all the messy diapers. On the last day of her two-week stay, she told me that I would have to change the next one, because she was worried that I might not be able to handle it. I whined and figured I could surely get one more out of her.
But Baby Abram settled that one. I was holding him on my shoulder when he slimed me good.
Pampers weren’t the high-tech solid waste management system they are now. Thirty years ago they didn’t have elastic at the legs to keep everything inside, so they only slowed down the expulsion, they didn’t stop it.
Changing me was worse than changing him because I was wearing the fashion statement of the ‘70s, a caftan, which is – for the uninformed – a cross between a Mumu and a Nehru jacket that you had to peel over your head to take off. My mom thought it was a scream.
Then there were encore performances in a movie theatre and on the plane taking him to North Carolina to meet the rest of the family when he was six week old. I was in the bathroom cleaning poop out of the feet of his onesies and holding on for dear life when the plane landed. Nothing like a change in air pressure to end a week of constipation.
And then there was the puking. He was 6 years old when I, a divorced single mom, started dating Bob. After picking him up from the sitter on our first date, Abram threw up on me and the front seat of Bob’s prized Grand Prix with the black interior.“Kids are so organic,” I said, hoping my wittiness would make up for the cost of detailing his car. Bob had no kids. I can’t believe he called again.
Abram went on to teach himself how to throw up when he didn’t like what was presented to him at mealtime. When he said, “I’ll throw up if you make me eat that!” he wasn’t kidding. It was a real show stopper in a restaurant.
When Abram was 9, his brother Jordan came along. Jordan had a penchant for finger painting on the walls with whatever raw materials happened to be handy. He resisted potty training so long that he learned to change his own diaper.
Nathan, born three years later, was always too busy playing outside to take a break and come in to go potty. He just pulled his pants down and went wherever he was.
“Hey Mom, Nathan pooped in the front yard again,” Abram, then 16, announced one day. “But don’t worry. I sucked it up in the lawnmower.”
Fast forward 20 years. Jordan comes over on Saturday with his new puppy – a Jack Russell terrier than my granddaughter Cheyenne’s mother gave up on – and asks me to dog sit while he works on his junker in the driveway. Jordan walks Dutch before bringing him in, but within the first 10 minutes, Bob yells that he has pooped in the bedroom. I pretend not to hear, just like I used to pretend that I didn’t hear the baby screaming in the middle of the night. Bob takes care of this one, at least.
While Jordan works on the car, I take the puppy out every half hour, deftly avoiding any pee accidents. When Jordan finishes his work, he brings in Dutch’s chew toys, which Scottie, our mutt, decides look enough like real food to fight for. So after some growling and snapping, he begins to gnaw on the plastic bone as if it is his last meal.
“He’s not supposed to eat anything but his special dog food,” I say. “Take it away from him.”
“He can’t eat that, Mom. It’s hard plastic,” he says. “It’s good for his teeth.”
Then Jordan says he is going to a party, and he’ll be back “in a couple of hours,” and he is leaving the puppy with us. Surprise.
After walking the dog again, I find that Scottie has chewed up and swallowed half the plastic bone that is impossible for him to eat. I rake his mouth out with my finger – dog slobber – I forget how much I like that, too – and throw away the remains.
The rest of my day is spent taking the puppy out to pee every 30 minutes and refereeing him and Scottie. Scottie doesn’t have good dog social skills. He vacillates between growling at Dutch and trying to hump him.
Around 8, it is obvious that Jordan wasn’t going to be back “in a couple of hours,” and Dutch poops in the kitchen. I’ve had enough. I put him in his kennel and then into the garage, only to listen to him yelp for an hour.
Jordan finally calls saying it will be late when he gets back, can we leave the door unlocked, and can he sleep on the couch? His ride to Yorktown backed out and he doesn’t want to drive the junker on its maiden voyage at night.
Meanwhile, Cheyenne – who’s spending the night – is fixed on Animal Planet, watching a boa constrictor barf up a baby antelope. “Oh-h-h-h, co-o-o-l,” she says.
As far as I know, the dog is still in the kennel when Jordan gets in – whenever that is – and he and the dog are gone when I get up. But not without leaving me a present just outside the bedroom door.
An hour later, I hear Scottie retching in the corner of the den. I rush in just in time to see him puking up pieces of plastic dog bone. Did I mention that he not only has sensitive skin, but also sensitive plumbing? Something I learned the first Thanksgiving when feeding him turkey scraps only to clean up diarrhea for two days?
I drag Scottie outside and tie him to his rope where he can puke in peace while I – trying to still my own stomach – clean up dog vomit.
What a lovely way to spend Memorial Day weekend.
Someday, in the not-too-distant future, perhaps I’ll get even with these kids when I’m senile and incontinent. Would I wish that on them?
It all Depends.
I’ve been cleaning up The Big Three for decades, and there doesn’t seem to be an end. I’m talking about the REAL Big Three – Poop, Pee and Puke.You’d think there would be a moratorium on cleaning up the Big Three after the age of 50. I’ve raised three kids and done heavy-duty grand babysitting.
That should be sufficient for a pardon. After all, you could get convicted of murder, serve a life sentence and be out of the slammer in less time.
I was never any good with it. When my mom came to help me with my newborn, I made her change all the messy diapers. On the last day of her two-week stay, she told me that I would have to change the next one, because she was worried that I might not be able to handle it. I whined and figured I could surely get one more out of her.
But Baby Abram settled that one. I was holding him on my shoulder when he slimed me good.
Pampers weren’t the high-tech solid waste management system they are now. Thirty years ago they didn’t have elastic at the legs to keep everything inside, so they only slowed down the expulsion, they didn’t stop it.
Changing me was worse than changing him because I was wearing the fashion statement of the ‘70s, a caftan, which is – for the uninformed – a cross between a Mumu and a Nehru jacket that you had to peel over your head to take off. My mom thought it was a scream.
Then there were encore performances in a movie theatre and on the plane taking him to North Carolina to meet the rest of the family when he was six week old. I was in the bathroom cleaning poop out of the feet of his onesies and holding on for dear life when the plane landed. Nothing like a change in air pressure to end a week of constipation.
And then there was the puking. He was 6 years old when I, a divorced single mom, started dating Bob. After picking him up from the sitter on our first date, Abram threw up on me and the front seat of Bob’s prized Grand Prix with the black interior.“Kids are so organic,” I said, hoping my wittiness would make up for the cost of detailing his car. Bob had no kids. I can’t believe he called again.
Abram went on to teach himself how to throw up when he didn’t like what was presented to him at mealtime. When he said, “I’ll throw up if you make me eat that!” he wasn’t kidding. It was a real show stopper in a restaurant.
When Abram was 9, his brother Jordan came along. Jordan had a penchant for finger painting on the walls with whatever raw materials happened to be handy. He resisted potty training so long that he learned to change his own diaper.
Nathan, born three years later, was always too busy playing outside to take a break and come in to go potty. He just pulled his pants down and went wherever he was.
“Hey Mom, Nathan pooped in the front yard again,” Abram, then 16, announced one day. “But don’t worry. I sucked it up in the lawnmower.”
Fast forward 20 years. Jordan comes over on Saturday with his new puppy – a Jack Russell terrier than my granddaughter Cheyenne’s mother gave up on – and asks me to dog sit while he works on his junker in the driveway. Jordan walks Dutch before bringing him in, but within the first 10 minutes, Bob yells that he has pooped in the bedroom. I pretend not to hear, just like I used to pretend that I didn’t hear the baby screaming in the middle of the night. Bob takes care of this one, at least.
While Jordan works on the car, I take the puppy out every half hour, deftly avoiding any pee accidents. When Jordan finishes his work, he brings in Dutch’s chew toys, which Scottie, our mutt, decides look enough like real food to fight for. So after some growling and snapping, he begins to gnaw on the plastic bone as if it is his last meal.
“He’s not supposed to eat anything but his special dog food,” I say. “Take it away from him.”
“He can’t eat that, Mom. It’s hard plastic,” he says. “It’s good for his teeth.”
Then Jordan says he is going to a party, and he’ll be back “in a couple of hours,” and he is leaving the puppy with us. Surprise.
After walking the dog again, I find that Scottie has chewed up and swallowed half the plastic bone that is impossible for him to eat. I rake his mouth out with my finger – dog slobber – I forget how much I like that, too – and throw away the remains.
The rest of my day is spent taking the puppy out to pee every 30 minutes and refereeing him and Scottie. Scottie doesn’t have good dog social skills. He vacillates between growling at Dutch and trying to hump him.
Around 8, it is obvious that Jordan wasn’t going to be back “in a couple of hours,” and Dutch poops in the kitchen. I’ve had enough. I put him in his kennel and then into the garage, only to listen to him yelp for an hour.
Jordan finally calls saying it will be late when he gets back, can we leave the door unlocked, and can he sleep on the couch? His ride to Yorktown backed out and he doesn’t want to drive the junker on its maiden voyage at night.
Meanwhile, Cheyenne – who’s spending the night – is fixed on Animal Planet, watching a boa constrictor barf up a baby antelope. “Oh-h-h-h, co-o-o-l,” she says.
As far as I know, the dog is still in the kennel when Jordan gets in – whenever that is – and he and the dog are gone when I get up. But not without leaving me a present just outside the bedroom door.
An hour later, I hear Scottie retching in the corner of the den. I rush in just in time to see him puking up pieces of plastic dog bone. Did I mention that he not only has sensitive skin, but also sensitive plumbing? Something I learned the first Thanksgiving when feeding him turkey scraps only to clean up diarrhea for two days?
I drag Scottie outside and tie him to his rope where he can puke in peace while I – trying to still my own stomach – clean up dog vomit.
What a lovely way to spend Memorial Day weekend.
Someday, in the not-too-distant future, perhaps I’ll get even with these kids when I’m senile and incontinent. Would I wish that on them?
It all Depends.
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