Even Supermoms Have Bad Days

Not every day is super as a mom. We love our kids and would do anything for them, but there are days when hiding in the back of our closet with a bottle of red wine and a soft blanket seems like a good idea.

One such day for this Supermom occurred years ago, after my husband left on a business trip and my mother-in-law, who had stayed overnight to help me with the kids, went home. No sooner had my mother-in-law said goodbye and closed the door that the doo-doo hit the fan.

My daughter, almost two, had been sleeping, and I heard her making noises, so I knew she was awake. As I approached the top of the stairs, a pungent odor nearly knocked me back down the steps.

I entered her room to see her standing in her crib with something brown smeared over the crib rails, her hands, and the mattress. She stood butt-naked, smiling in her crib. I approached her, gagging, eyes bulging, and mouth agape.

Her diaper lay at the foot of her crib near her blanket and stuffed toy. At the opposite end, where she put her head, was what looked like a chocolate bar, except it wasn't candy.

Imagine a cartoon with arms and legs flailing and eyes popping from their sockets as the toon leaps into the air in shock and that represents what I felt. My mind spun in horror and disgust. The odor—and the thought of how unsanitary sleeping next to feces was—and then the thought of having to clean it, all caused my head to explode.

Well, you may be more level-headed than I was, but remember, this was not a super day for this mom. Suffice it to say, I didn't get Mom of the Year at that time.

That's Not Finger Paints!

I could have calmly removed my little girl from the crib, plopped her in a warm bath, and let the nasties dissolve away. But no. I ran around upstairs opening windows in early Spring, gagging and yelling, "Oh my god! How could you put that where you sleep? Why did you take off your diaper?" My rants were interrupted by gagging fits. After all the windows were opened, I had to calm down before picking her up.

I ran a warm bath for her and then went back to get her. When I returned, she had smeared more of the substance onto her face. More ranting and mumbling to myself. "Can't she smell it? Why did this happen after everybody left?"

My son, wondering what was going on upstairs, crept to the top step and stared at me. A breeze swept the stench right into his face. His nose crinkled and he recoiled back down the stairs. Smart boy!

By now, my daughter realized Mom was unhappy, and I'm sure my pacing and ramblings overwhelmed her. She wailed and rubbed her eyes with her dirty fist. That sent me into another gagging fit and babbling asides, wacky enough to make a Shakespearean protagonist envious.

Her whimpers broke through my temporary insanity, and I finally picked her up like a skunk who was ready to spray me. I sat her in the tub, wiped and rinsed her until I smelled only her baby soap. After I dried her off, dressed her, and regained my composure, I took her downstairs and placed her in her bouncy seat.

Before returning upstairs, I told her brother, "Watch your sister. I'll be right upstairs."

"Okay," he said.

Arming myself with bleach and paper towels and rubber gloves, I trudged up the steps to disinfect the mattress and the entire crib, withholding my urge to chuck them both out the window. I had to make sure I sanitized all the slats and nooks and crannies. Once the bed was clean and the sheets were in the wash, I collapsed onto the couch staring at my little girl who was oblivious of the turmoil her finger painting games had caused her mommy.

What's the point?

If you've made it through this less than savory story, you might be wondering why I wrote it. Because life with kids gets messy. Because parents are human and we do stupid things, irrational things, and sometimes mad things, like monologuing to ourselves while pacing and gesturing. However, when the day is done, and the poo has been cleaned up, we can usually look back and laugh at our mistakes and see that it all turned out fine. It may not have been perfect, but we do the best we can at the time. Could I have handled the stinky finger painting event in a calmer or better manner? I'm sure I could have, but I didn't, and my little girl grew up, fairly well adjusted in spite of my less than stellar parenting moments. You'll have them, too. Forgive yourself.

Parenting is hard. Sometimes as parents we try to be perfect and in the process of striving for perfection, we miss the imperfect life happening in front of us. Kids don't want perfect. They want us; our time, our attention, and our love—and they also want discipline, although they'll never admit it. So, I raise my glass to my former self, and I say, good job for not throwing the crib and mattress out the window!

Signed,

Supermom

P.S. The kids turned out beautifully.