My Mommy Stomach is Gone – Guest Post

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My Mommy Stomach is gone.  I’m not talking about the pooch under the navel where the c-section scar rests. (That is called my “puppy”, and we still cuddle every night.)  I am talking about the ability to weather a Category five storm of bodily fluids and smells.
 
As a mother, I have been barfed on, had diarrhea in my hair, pulled ear wax out with my pinky nail, had my shirt used as a tissue with massive boogers, have been peed in the face with my contacts stuck in urine, puss, scratches, blood and the list continues.  Have wiped many a poopy fanny even after potty training, so my son won’t have “itchy butt”.  Yes, child your butt itches because you are “too busy” to wipe, and now I have to do an industrial cleaning so you won’t be raw.  No one wants to be around a boy who smells like poo.
 
When my son was a tiny little muffin, actually closed a 30k deal while changing his Rotavirus diaper.  Yes, I was negotiating via mobile the salary of a creative director while elbow deep in yellow, lumpy diarrhea which smelled like fish.  It’s amazing what can be conquered when given no other choice.  Motherhood can take the weakest of women and make them steel truck tough.Easter with mommy
 
Living with two XY chromosomes, make it three with the German Shepherd, will always wear some form of shoes in the bathroom.  It is amazing no one can actually pee in the large hole known as the toilet but have a specialized talent of pissing all around it.  They both blame each other.  The dog doesn’t hike his leg and has opted for just streaming on his front paws.  The bathroom and the floors are on a continuous cleaning cycle.
 
I remember the exact incident when my “Mommy Stomach” disappeared.  At first thought it was when we all got the flu at the same time.  Finally crawled to the bed after sleeping on the tile floor for three hours, when my boy comes running in saying he felt sick.  He didn’t even get the full sentence out before the projectile vomit of pink chunks, and green peppers hit my chest.  What did he eat that was pink?  But we were all sick, and it was chalked up to a horrid family illness which occurred the exact time when the master bathroom toilet decided not to work.
 
It was a year later.  My son informs me a situation has happened in the bathroom.  This is just your typical Tuesday so no big deal.  Mommy, he says, I didn’t make it to the potty in time and pooped on the floor.  First thoughts are – Could he not unbutton his pants?  Why did he wait until the last minute?  Is he sick?  He’s eight now, so we are way past poo poo accidents.  I grab the paper towels and cleaning spray to march up to the second floor.  Open the closed door and there it sits in all of its glory.  There is the lone poo. 
 
Well at least he didn’t step in it, and this will be an easy cleanup job.  Time to get to work.  I bend down to do my Mommy duty, and my stomach recoils like it has been punched.  Wait now, what’s going on?  You have been through way more brutal battles.  The seven showers you took in one day when he was three because he felt more comforted barfing down your back.  You let him do it.  He was sick.  You put on your full armor and fought the good fight.
 
It’s only a piece of poo.  One lone piece of poo doesn’t even register on the scale of nasty.  I bent down again to do my job and turned into a 12-year-old girl who truly believes in cooties.  I started to dry heave.  What is happening?  Okay, walk away and give yourself some air and then go back in – this is temporary.  Do I have a fever?  Back in and out of the same room three times and each time it was getting worse.  I sounded like a cat trying to get up a hairball.  I can’t do this.  What is happening?
 
After the mental battle of downgrading this situation, I decided it wasn’t happening.   This excrement was not going to be cleaned up by the same women who has been a swashbuckler of the “S” word since he came out of my womb.  I made it through the rough years, the needed years and maybe this was my mental menopause of all things disgusting.  
 
My husband was called.  My admission was made – I have lost my Mommy Stomach.  You have to clean this up, or I am going to be sick, and you will be cleaning two messes.  I have tried.  Will close the door to the bathroom and it will be waiting for you when you come home.  He laughed and told me it would be okay.  It would be a done deal when he came home.
 
I ran up stairs, didn’t look at the floor and slammed the door while choking.  Continued to work, told my child it was no big deal even though he asked me a million times why I was acting like I was sick.  I have lost my Mommy Stomach, my dear.  Daddy will clean all this up when he comes home.  Typed on the computer while the German Shepherd begged for attention licking my hands and face.  At least he has been good today – which is rare.
 
Daddy comes home with boy jumping up and down with excitement.  “I pooped on the floor, and it made Mommy sick!  You have to come and see it!”  They walk upstairs with the dog.  Then my husband says, “Honey, there is nothing here.”  You are not funny.  “Really there is nothing on the floor Mommy!”  I walk upstairs, and sure enough, it has been magically cleaned.  Look at the floor and look at my husband, look down and then look at my son, look back down and look at the dog.  I point my detective question to the furry one with the four legs which is panting – Did you eat the poo off the floor?  He slowly walks back down the stairs to the back door.
 
So I lost it.  Really lost it. That dog had been licking on me for an hour.  He was extra happy because he just had his “snack” and wanted to share his love.  Should have known because he gets extra frisky after he eats and he was way too playful not to have been into something.Depositphotos_63641751_l-2015
 
As Moses coming down from the mountain, I descended the stairs with my list of commandments.  There will no longer be skid marked underwear to be cleaned.  Thou shalt throw them away.  If you step in dog feces in the backyard, ye shall clean it up.  Yes, it is amazing you pulled something that large out of your nose, but I can not view it anymore.  Do not burp on me.  Do not open any form of potted meat in my presence. Fart on the other side of the house.  The list continued even to the simplest of grievances.  
 
The acceptance had been made, and it was declared loud and clear.  There was a hush across the kitchen.  Heads were bowed in respect as we mourned my once titanium tummy.  She was gone.  My Mommy Stomach gone.  May she rest in peace.
 
This guest post was written by my friend, Kim Kurtz. You can find more funny stories over on her blog Walking the Plank with Eli. 
 
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Meghan Cooper is a writer, content creator, movie critic, and geek living in Atlanta, Ga. She loves movies, traveling, and lots of coffee. Member of the Southeastern Film Critics Association, Georgia Film Critics Association, and Atlanta Film Critics Circle.

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