as i lay in my cell phone-lit room last night pondering various metaphors to begin this post, i struck upon one that seems fairly obvious. but it fits, so here goes.
it’s like a storm. you see the big black thunderheads off in the distance, but first you’re optimistic—cocky even. pshaw. that’s gonna pass us right by. good westerly wind will blow it right on past.
but it doesn’t work that way—the clouds continue to build and drift menacingly closer and before you know it drops of rain are hitting your shoulders and you’re still thinking it’s okay. really. we’re going to be okay because this will be quick and you know what? in a way it’s almost good. we can use the rain.
it doesn’t much matter what kind of face you put on it though. in the end it’s going to happen just like you knew it would from the first sign of inclement weather. so when it’s like threat level magenta or something and panic mode hits and you’re running for shelter (and now i’m mixing metaphors but it’s okay because IT’S THAT BAD) the last thing you can think is we’ll all be alright in the end. we can make it through because we have plenty of canned food and a good clean up team.
here it comes people. and i hope you’re ready.
it’s like a tornado. no. it’s like wildfire combined with a tornado. not good enough. make that a wildfire enhanced sharknado, because when you have five kids and the first one cries “my belly hurts” you kinda feel like the lady spying the thunderheads.
then that one starts hurling and you’re all hey. we can do this. you’re still not so sleep-deprived that you can’t joke with your significant other in the middle of the night. babe, if you’re gonna spew, spew in this. ::gigglesnort::
you’re awesome, you got this, changing sheets and doing laundry and running baths at 3 am is kind of exhilirating in a deep-in-the-trenches-of-parenthood-these-are-the-moments-that-make-up-our-lives sort of way.
but by the end of it you’re creeping cautiously from your shelter, blinking in the sunlight and whispering it’s alright. we have plenty of canned food and a good cleanup team.
we were hit hard two years ago, and i waxed poetically about it then. but last year we were spared and i should have known—the odds were certainly NOT in our favor for this year.
one down, four to go.
errr….i’m sorry. update. make that two down, three to go. wildfire sharknado, people.
i find myself pondering such brain benders as how old should a child be to have to dump and rinse their own puke bucket without you being a Bad Mommy? because i gotta tell ya, about 5 is my limit. ::heave, heave::
and not to be completely disgusting…okay, yes sorry i’m about keeping it real. so to be completely disgusting and because my husband and i came of age in the 90’s we think we’re terribly funny when we say, dude. she didn’t throw up. she blew chunks. because yeah, that’s exactly what elliot did. and once you know the difference you KNOW the difference.
and elliot—who shall henceforth be known as Patient Zero, lay there listening she looked up at me with ruddy cheeks and glassy eyes and said…
yes, elliot. chunks.
mommy. chunk is not yummy. chunks is stinky.
you’re absolutely right elliot. now can someone pass me the can opener.