We were sitting in the backyard on one of the first warm June nights when my 3-year-old presented me my “dinner” of plastic eggs and a washed-out mold of spaghetti. Both were fresh out of the shed, which was haphazardly closed up over winter, so they were covered with a thin layer of dirt. (They were also included in a bucket of hand-me-down toys from a couple decades back, so also covered in a thin layer of BPA, I imagine.)

I quickly immersed myself into my role as Insolent Toddler At Dinner, quick to point out “the spice” (aka dirt) all over one side of my eggs.

“Nope. I don’t want to eat it. There’s spice. Right there. I see it. Do you see that spice, Mama? I’m not eating that part.”

My daughter sighed and rolled her eyes (a nice bit of improvisation on her part and not at all anything that she’s picked up from her own mother). “Fine. Just eat ‘til you get to ‘dat part and when you get to the spice, I’ll eat it,” she told me.

“Why?”

“Because I’m being the mom and moms do all the gross things,” she answered matter-of-factly.

Moms do all the gross things.

Yes. Yes, darling, they do. And I’m proud of you for recognizing that now.

I’m happy that you understand that before I became your mother, the mere sight of someone gagging on TV would also make me gag. But a couple weeks ago, the house woke up to the panicked pitter-patter of your tiny feet trying to run down the hall and into the bathroom as you tried desperately to make it to the toilet before doing what you ultimately did, which was throw up all over yourself. Without flinching, I scooped you up, covered in vomit, stripped you down and ignored the smell as I washed away both the tears on your gorgeous face and the chunks in your hair (that I was desperate to ignore).

Thank you, sweet girl, for knowing that for the last ~30 years, the only poop I have been in contact with has been my own. And that nowadays, not only do I have the pleasure of wiping someone else’s butt on the daily, but I also get to involuntarily participate in a disturbing Rorschach test. But, instead of looking at inkblots with a trained professional inside a pretty office, you and I are hovering over the toilet before we flush as you say things like, “’Dat poop looks like a squirrel’s tail.” Or “Hey, Mama, do you see that little one? Do you think that looks like a hat or dog food?”

You want to know how often Mommy went into a public bathroom before you were born, doll? I’ll give you a clue. How many siblings do you have? Zero. Zero times. And now I know every public bathroom in a 30 mile radius of our home. I know which ones have “the loud hand things.” I know which bathrooms have broken coat hooks inside every single stall. I know which bathrooms have the nice changing tables.

I’ve made peace with public bathrooms. ‘Cuz mah girl’s gotta pee. Oh, and sometimes, you gots to poop. So you know what else I know about all the public bathrooms? The acoustics. Because every time you poop in public, you ask me to sing you a song to help settle you down.

Moms DO do gross things. Like clean out car seats. And couch cushions. And anywhere else we are stupid enough to let you have food when we are desperate for a couple minutes of silence or running late for an errand.

We do gross things, like shove our hands into a toilet full of pee (your pee, my pee – who knows) because a My Little Pony was dropped in there and was about to be flushed down.

I never thought I’d be able to do the gross things. I didn’t think I was cut out for it. To be honest, I didn’t know that I was cut out for motherhood. But here we are, my daughter – me and you, sitting in the grass, playing with dirty toys. And I see how much fun you’re having. And I realize that doing the gross things is just part of the package. Motherhood may not come naturally, but loving you sure does. So, if I have to do some gross things, then so be it.

But I’m still not eating that “piece of spice.” How do YOU like it when someone says that over and over and over and over?

**********

About the Author

Heather is a marketing director and NY native (of the Upstate variety) who has to cover the last few pages of a good book with her hands so that she doesn’t skim ahead and ruin the ending. In between scouring the clearance racks at Target and stalking Mindy Kaling’s Twitter feed, she performs Disney numbers for her daughter (a preschooler who doesn’t object) and husband (who knew what he was getting into when he put a ring on it.) Follow her on Twitter.