The Sliding Scale of Acceptability

*Warning: I am in an oversharing type of mood. For those of you who are not mothers, who are squeamish, easily grossed out, or just plain sane, you may want to move along now. Nothing to see here.*

Life is always in motion, even as I lay here nearly motionless and still in my pajamas. Some of my motion is undetectable to the eye, because it's happening somewhere between my right and left ears. As I spend my Tuesday morning obsessively checking my email, Farcebook (that was a typo, but I like it so it's staying), my other email, my third email, and watching my 8-week-old bundle of obscene noises and cute expressions suck his fingers like something worthwhile may come shooting forth at any moment, I realize that things that I never dreamed would be acceptable are gaining ground. "Like what?" you may be asking...and even if you aren't, this is my blog and I'm running the show, so that's what you're asking. Well, my dear friends, acquaintances, cyber-stalkers and complete strangers, let me break it down for you.

1. Familial Semi-Nudity
[No photo due to decency laws.]
Just a mere year ago, if I had taken a survey about the acceptability of being topless or semi-topless in front of family members, I would have chosen the option of "Oh, hell no." But then I gave life to little Mr. Declan "Diaper Disaster" Clark and my answer has since changed. My mom came to visit after he was born, and my mother in law, and suddenly flopping a jug out of my oversized and stained shirt seems not only okay, but normal. "Hey mom. You don't mind if I feed my offspring while we make small talk, right? Just kidding...I'm not really concerned if you mind." *yanks out one overstuffed funbag and Sir Tootsalot latches on* "So, you said you got a prime parking spot at Kohl's earlier? Do tell!" I vaguely remember when toplessness was saved for weekends spent with Captain Morgan, but now it's prime time for airing out the ol' areolas every 3 hours of every day with Captain Poopin'.

2.  Tank Spotting
[No photo due to not wanting to take a photo of this.]
My brothers nicknamed me "The Walking Placemat" when I was but a wee child. I had a knack for depositing whatever I was trying to eat directly onto my clothing. As I aged (gracefully, I might add), my dedication to being an unpaid, freelance, uncoordinated tester for Stain Stick, Tide To Go pen, Shout, and other stain removal products did not wane. But I did get better at recognizing the stain and removing the offending clothing before venturing out to places where people would judge me. Then came Declan "Waaaaaaaaaah, I'm hungry NOW" Clark. And you know what happens when a breastfeeding mother is nearby her child who is crying for food? Yeah, it causes some leaking upstairs, if you catch my drip. Whereas I used to change out of stained/soiled/wet shirts (unless I was in a wet t-shirt contest, which is never), now I survey the situation and most always come to the conclusions that, "Meh, that'll dry up in a half hour." (Same goes for the back of my shirt when burping Buggy Bear and falling victim to the spit up.) And before you other mothers tell me about the absorbent-yet-way-too-small-in-diameter pads that are designed to fit right into your shirt or bra, yes, I have them. I use them. But we have about a 50% failure rate due to the either faulty placement on my part or my boob spouts' penchant for wandering.

3. Your-analysis
[No photo due to unpredictable nature of this phenomena.]
I have been peed on. A lot. For the past 30-some-years of my life, that was an unacceptable notion. But Declan "The Fire Hose" Clark has perfect timing, if by perfect timing we're talking about the 1.3 seconds I have his diaper off before covering him with a new diaper. There have been some near misses, but there have also been some all-out, arching fountain of peepers sailing through the air and directly at me. To be fair, though, poor little D has given himself a golden shower on occasion, so at least I'm not the only one on the losing end of his whiz spout. When it does happen to me, though, a little wipe with a baby wipe on whatever part of me got doused and we're onto the next task. Seriously, when does getting peed on not warrant a 45-minute shower and perhaps some sobbing and/or fetal position rocking? Now, I guess. My how quickly things change.

4. Under-nail Fecal Samples
[No photo due to ewww.]
This is the perfect #4 after #3, and regarding #2. Declan "The Poop Machine" Clark can mess up a diaper. And by "mess up," I mean literally mess all the way up the back of a diaper. And this is no mere mortal poo -- this stuff is somehow simultaneously the most sticky and yet the most scattered matter I've ever encountered. It will hold fast to any skin it encounters, his or mine, and yet will suddenly disappear only to reappear somewhere totally different and unsettling. Like under my fingernail. Not a lot of it, but one tiny little sample. Just right there, under my nail, where I can't get it out easily. And at first it was very upsetting, until many consecutive days of not a lot of sleep and a lot of desensitization to this phenomena of the nomadic poop granules. Now there have been moments, in a foggy haze of sleepiness, that I've realized, "Oh hey, there's a little piece of poop under my nail and/or smooshed into my cuticle. And, oh hey, here's my pillow and I'm going to....zzzzzzz." I am not proud of this, but not even airing this fact out on a public forum will shame me into really caring at 4:30 am if there's a microscopic bit of eww under my nail. Judge me all you want, but this is between me and Softsoap, not you.

5. Boogie Patrol
[No photo due to laziness on part of the blogger.]
When I left the hospital with Declan "Quadruple Sneezer" Clark, they gave me one of those blue bulbous squeezy things (I'm pretty sure that's the actual name of it) to help clear out his nasal passages. Again, for the past...um...entirety of my life, I would not need nor desire a tool to help another human being suck snot out of his or her face. Now the game has changed. When little man is getting a little wheezy in the breezy, I use the squeezy to get the cause out of his schnoz. The worst part is I feel victorious after doing so. Not like "I just won the Superbowl!" victorious, but you know, like "I just sucked a big boogie out of my baby's face and now he can breathe easier!" It's a lesser shade of winning, but still, it makes me feel accomplished. And now after rereading this, I realize that I've reset my bar so low that it's actually underground.

Okay, that's five things that are now varying degrees of acceptable that never were before. And that's five things on my blog that don't require photos of D.B.C., which I'm afraid may cause a riot for some of the kinfolk readers. So, here are photos, for no good reason other than he's cute, of Mr. D.B. Clark:

"Mom, put your shirt back on. You're embarrassing me."

"Did someone say Captain Morgan? Let me show you my Captain pose...I've been working real hard on it."

"So, you're saying you just picked me up and you have poop under your nails? Awesome. Hey, while you're up, be a doll and find the number for Child Protective Services for me."

"Wait, did mom neglect to put on pants on me? Well, I guess this is the last time I show my face at the 3:30 Jazzercise class."