pig barn

I grew up in a rural area and as a right of passage, of course, held a 4-H membership card for about eight years. I raised all sorts of farm animals and the county fair generally seemed the pinnacle event of every year of my childhood.

If you’ve been to a fair with livestock you know what the pig barn situation smells like. It’s the most overwhelming stench of stink you’ve ever experienced. You want to puke before you’re fully under the rafters. But the funny thing every kid learns, by the time you are done walking through it you can hardly remember what it first smelled like.

I’ve reached that phase of motherhood. Bodily fluids and excrement no longer bug me out. L threw up on the carpet two days ago. What used to result in me, myself, gagging, ended in me deftly dabbing it one handed while holding H in the other arm.

Yesterday on the walk home from school E – suddenly, out of no where- cried, “Can I run home? I gotta GO”. So I watched his skinny little frame run down the street and after I dropped the stroller off in the garage, coaxed L out of it and made my way up the front steps I hear him screaming…. I calm as ever asked, “What happened?” and he cried, “It went on my pants!”

Now, poop usually is “the thing” I can’t stand, but my primary concern was dealing with the shame and embarrassment E clearly felt. My heart went out to him. How awful it is at six years old to poop your pants. So I got the littles in as quick as I could, and I helped him clean up himself and the toilet seat (thank you world for Clorox wipes).

Just now, I’m in bed and H is in his six week growth spurt so he nursed for a bit longer than he should have and as I was holding him in the crook of my arm, he spit up a warm amount of fluid directly down my cleavage line. Yes I’m tired and sleep deprived, but I barely noticed the smell or the “ick” factor and mostly concentrated on getting him to go back to sleep.

I guess I’ve learned to close off my nostrils when I know a gross thing is coming. I’m an expert at instantly breathing through the mouth, before my mind can fully comprehend the nastiness I must clean up. Cloth diapering is obviously helping me with this sudden toughness regarding the gross. It’s just like the swine barn from my youth; I’m literally surrounded by feces and vomit and I’m all like, “What smell dear?” when my husband comes home.

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