There’s a reason I didn’t become a nurse. OK, technically there are a few reasons (like the fact that I didn't go to school to become one; minor detail), but the main one? Vomit. As noble, powerful, and important as the professional of nursing is, I just couldn’t entertain the thought of dealing with throw-up on a semi-regular basis. I’m not squeamish at blood, boogers don’t phase me, and while the contents of a diaper aren’t exactly fun for me, I’m not going to freeze at the sight. But barf? I can’t even.
Though, as all parents know, bodily fluids are an inevitable part of parenting. Thankfully, my vomit-phobia has slowly gotten better over the years (our digestively curious dog provides great exposure therapy), and I have already managed to clean up more than one extra-gross high chair mess (why is it always in the high chair?), something I used to have serious doubts about my ability to do. And I know I’m not alone in this. Parenting often requires that we roll up our sleeves, grab the paper towels and Clorox wipes, and take care of business. Or sometimes, it requires just the opposite: that we forgo our normal response until the little one is tended to. What used to be gross is no longer gross, it’s now just part of the routine. Allow me to share what I mean. (I'm sorry for bringing you on this terrible journey with me.)