The Ick Factor

Yesterday at my daughter’s preschool I watched 6 out of the 15 kids pick their noses during circle time. 4 of them ate it, 1 of them wiped it on their pants and the other on their neighbor. Let’s face it, sometimes our little angels are just gross little monsters. 

Several months into my first pregnancy, I remember reading Kaiser’s suggested birth plan ideas (pause for after-the-fact laughter that anyone thinks you can possibly plan how your precious miracle will enter the world). I vividly remember checking the box that said “I’d like my baby to be lightly toweled off before being placed on my chest”. I kept searching for the “just like in the movies” box that said, “a 5-month-old, freshly bathed and lightly dipped in jelly will be handed to me”, however that apparently wasn’t covered under our insurance. Not only did I help pull Charlotte out myself, but she could have been plastered in a pickle/black olive juice combo and I still would have kissed her head and inhaled her scent like I needed it to give me life (which I still do).

One of my children, who will remain nameless to respect their privacy, brought me a little treasure, cupped so gently in her hands I thought she was showing me an injured bird. Nope, it was poop. A perfectly shaped turd that must have fallen out during a diaper change. Rather than run screaming in disgust, I immediately hosed everyone down and then upped their fiber intake, in that order.

I thought that by having little girls I might escape the laundry list of icks, but no such luck. Luckily, there are no amount of boogers, bodily fluids, and BM’s that could stop us from loving our messy little monsters.