The history of Mother's Day - a la Mormon

I have a history of bad Mother's Days.  It's not Mr. Mormon's fault. It's my fate. My destiny.  I am doomed to have bad Mother's Days.  Luckily, I still really love being a mother and realize it's not about the day.  And now I know just to brace for the badness.

I know you're thinking, "Oh Mama - don't be mama-dramatic.  How bad could your Mother's Days be?"

Let me tell ya.

There was the year my eardrum ruptured on Mother's Day.  I took myself to the emergency room all night and there were toe nails on the floor.  The doctor had me remove all my clothing for my ear check.  Then, telling me it was too late to do anything, gave me medications that caused my blood pressure to go through the roof and land myself back in the doctor's office.  (I also got to have a tube up my nose that occasion.  I had the joy joy joy joy up my nostril - up my nostril - up my nostril.....)

There was the year I was on bed rest for Mother's Day.  Oh, that was fun.  That day was toilet plunger Sunday, as well.

There was the year this happened, too.  Here is a journal entry I found about last Mother's Day. Re-live the joy with me!

Mother's Day a la puke

I woke up on Mother's Day and immediately panicked looking at the clock.  Everyone was still asleep - and it was less than an hour before we had to leave for church.  ARGH

I hopped in the shower, dried my hair, threw on a robe, and made breafkast for 2 miniMormons.  And that's when it got ugly.

Miniest had gotten sick and it was eeeeeeeverywhere. I called down for Mr. Mormon to help me, and he took a couple of minutes getting there as he was finishing putting on his suit. So up comes a handsome, well-dressed, fully cologned man to help clean puke.  At least someone was ready for church on Mother's Day.

I got Miniest in the tub and Mr. Mormon stripped sheets.  Then I had to race downstairs to work on non-pukers' church hair.  I got them settled and organized and shipped 3 of my family members off to church without a mother on Mother's Day.

0_0

Then, it was back to Puker. Got her cleaned and dressed and decided I was still going to make myself look cute on Mother's Day as, heck, I'd bathed and that was half the battle!  I just needed to flat iron my hair and get some clothes on and this day wasn't going to be all shot to heck. Gosh, it wasn't even 8:30 am - plenty of time for greatness still!

So I started the laundry for Miniest and took her to my bathroom to do both of our hair. I turned away for one smidgey tiny second and Miniest (for the first time EVER) grabbed my flat iron.

Ohh - the scream of pain!

QUICK!  Rush Miniest to the fridge and get an ice bath going for the burn. On the way, I stopped in the other bathroom to grab some Tylenol for her and got her well-doped for both of our peace.

Once the screaming was relatively reduced, I thought we'd snuggle on the sofa and I'd hold her and let her watch some TV as a diversion while I waited for some of her (disgusting) laundry to finish.  We settled down, I had her all bundled up and snuggly, propped on the extra soft pillows (with not 1, not 2, but 3 chenille blankets surrounding her, arranged to her exact specifications) when....buuuuuuuuuuuurp.  Out comes the Tylenol.

What kind of mother am I to give a puker Tylenol?  ARGH

We head straight to the laundry room, and now, I've been puked on, so I have to carefully peel off my robe and her (once lovely white) dress and unwrap her from all the blankets and pillows, all the while, keeping the hand IN the ice water. While going through all of this, I realize, heck - at least the first load of puke laundry is ready for the dryer!  As I'm working on her and trying to figure out how to move the washing machine laundry to the dryer with the least amount of pukage touching moiself, I hear a strange noise coming from the family room.

Puker is settled enough she can sit tight for a minute and off I run - nekid mind you because my robe had been puked on - to find the source of the bizarre noise.  Ahhh - it wasn't an intruder or a rogue tornado racing toward my home!  It was just the dog having an epileptic seizure on the floor, spewing more body fluids about for me to clean up. 

Realizing I couldn't do a lot for the dog and now hearing shrieks of pain and misery coming from the laundry room, I left the dog to her agony, promising to clean her up in a few minutes. I did ask her why she couldn't have seized on the tile, but realized she was probably too occupied to have thought of that.

I got the wet laundry moved, the new laundry started, Puker calmed and re-tubbed, and I went back to the dog (Ok, still nekid, if you must know.)  I helped her outside (yes, nekid - sigh) and began pretreating the carpet and NOW I got some clothes on.  While getting dressed, I gave up on the hair and threw the flat iron back in the cabinet.)

I cleaned the carpet, cleaned the dog, and finished re-washing Puker, but this time I left her in a diaper.  See I'm no dummy! Back to the sofa for resumed cuddling/TV watching.  ahhh

It was about this time that Miniest Mormon saw the Tylenol dropper and wanted to play with it.  No problem, I thought.  She would take the 1.5 mL dropper, put it in her ice water bath, and then drink from the dropper. This is not something you or I might do (it's gross, frankly), but I didn't see much harm in it - and thought it would be a good test to see if she could keep tiny bits of liquid down.

She couldn't.

It was back to the shower for me after this hurl-fest (by way of the laundry room, of course!) Luckily, the dryer was now done, so I could get those things out and, gosh, wear them for the day as I'd first intended!  Puker needed a new diaper, and all of those were upstairs - so we went up there, changed her, and cleaned that tub of its vomitous remains.  A few minutes later, I was back downstairs cleaning the sink where I had had to sponge bathe her post-third-puke.

Downstairs, the dog had another seizure, this time in the laundry room and she cut her face doing it.  There was blood eeeeeeeverywhere.  I Florence Nightengaled-ed her up and it was now time to clean those throw rugs (eww!), take everything off the floor in there (ironing board, vacuums, etc.) and run the Scooba.

By this point, Miniest can handle no more no-Mama, so it's back to burn duty and huge amounts of cuddling.  

And as we cuddled, all I could think was....Happy Mother's Day!

With my track record, I'm clearly doomed to have an anvil drop on my head this year. It was nice knowing ya!  It truly is the best job in the world and no matter what happens that day, I do love being a mom.  Happy Mother's Day, homefries!