Guest Blogger and Mommy Robin Malcolm: How Much Do I Love My Kids?


Robin's child covered in spaghetti sauce... not the other thing.

After a bunch of Mom friends on Facebook started sharing their Mommy Horror Stories, I asked my friend Robin to write a Guest Blog for me describing her worst gag-inducing story.  Here it is in all it’s gory glory!

Warning: This article is not for the faint of heart.  It contains references to diapers, throw up and other assorted grossness.  Experienced Moms and most Dads should be fine.  Everyone else, you have been warned.

Kids are harbingers of grossness.  The first few months with the first new baby are, for the parent, a baptism into the world of diaper containment failures, reverse-ejected formula, nasal stalactites and all other manner of revolting things.  What I can never bring myself to tell a new parent, their eyes still glazed with new- baby euphoria (or maybe just lack of sleep) is that it gets worse before it gets better.

When my son was ten, he got sick in the middle of the night.   My husband was out of town and my mommy-senses started tingling when I heard a cry in the night. It registered in my sleep-heavy brain and as I was pulling myself out of the haze, I heard it.  You know: IT– That awful, gut-wrenching sound precluding a full-on violent heave.

In a time measured in nanoseconds, I went from half-asleep to a dead sprint twenty feet to his door, yelling, “TO THE BATHROOM!  TO THE POTTY! HURRY! MOVE!”  in a voice that probably woke the neighbors.

It was not to be.  My poor boy, sleeping on the top bunk, had not had enough warning to climb down the ladder, walk across the hall and toss his little cookies in the toilet.  But bless his heart, he had tried.

This is your final warning.  Weak stomachs, turn back now.

His bedroom looked like a crime scene.  Remnants of dinner trailed from the top bunk, down the wall, across the ladder, across the lower bunk and all over the floor.  And there he sat, on the top bunk in his dirty pajamas with tears streaming down his face.

“Mommy, I don’t feel good.”

How can a mother not have pity? In the midst of it all- the smell, the sight, my own fatigue, my child needed help.  So after giving him a bath and a fresh pair of jammies, I did something only a parent would do; I put him back to bed IN MY OWN BED.  With no reassurance whatsoever that he wouldn’t do it again, I tucked him in, strategically placed the obligatory bucket, prayed for him and turned out the light.

Then, armed with a portable carpet-cleaner and a lot of rags, I cleaned.  And I cleaned. And I cleaned.  I think I even heaved a few times myself.  And I kept cleaning. Never in my life have I had to clean up something so awful.

How much do I love my children? Enough to let them sleep in my own bed while I clean up their vomit.  Enough to clean their diaper blow-outs and kiss their little face when I’m done.  Enough to reach into the toilet and pull out a treasured toy.  Enough to sacrifice my last bite of chocolate cake.  Enough to share a sip of my soda, knowing it will end up with flotsam.

God’s love for His children is infinite and sacrificial.  While we were still lost in sin, wallowing in the mess we had made of our lives, God reached across time and cleaned up the mess.  He sent His only Son, allowing him to be sacrificed on a cross, to pay the penalty for the mess sin makes in our lives.  He loves us as a parent loves a child.    All we have to do is ask him for help.

“How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God.”  1 John 3:1 (NIV)


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