We Got Worms!- My Messy Beautiful

"Pinworms?!?" I asked, totally skeptical.

"Yeah, pinworms. My mom and I saw a program on TV about them. Apparently, an itchy heiny is one of the symptoms," said my friend, Sarah.

I'd been complaining to her about waking up five times that night by my 3.5 year old, who had an itchy heiny, and my 18 month old who had an upset stomach. 

I immediately googled "pinworms in children" and uttered a low, guttural "uuhhhmyyyygaaawwwd...."

I read to Sarah, "Umm... according to webmd... Most people get pinworms by swallowing the worms' eggs. This happens when someone with pinworms scratches around the anus, gets eggs on his or her hands (or under the fingernails), and touches you or a surface that you later touch."

"EWWW!" she screamed.

"Oh, it gets worse--When eggs get on your hands or food and then you eat, the eggs go into your mouth. And they move into your stomach and then to your rectal area. So Henry ATE pinworm eggs? Oh, no, Sarah. OOOOOOhhh nooooooo."

"What?!?" she asked.

"'THE EGGS TURN INTO WORMS IN ABOUT A MONTH! A PINWORM CRAWLS OUT OF THE BODY AT NIGHT AND LAYS EGGS ON THE SKIN AROUND THE ANUS. THE WIGGLING MOTION IS WHEN THE WORM LAYS EGGS, WHICH MAY IRRITATE THE SKIN AND CAUSE ITCHING!!!"

Needless to say, we both screamed, and I hung up to call the pediatrician, but not before texting my Monkee friend, Hollis, an emergency text:

Then, I did what any mom would do. I got in the shower and cried. And I scrubbed myself harder than that time in college when a frat guy threw me in a mud pit filled with mud, beer, vomit, and God knows what else (I don't want to talk about it). 

It was straight out of The Crying Game. Or Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, whichever one you're more familiar.

I wish I could say that this is where the story ends. Henry got worms, we got the medicine-- WAHOO! My messy beautiful! 

False. False, my friend. You should sit down. 

The next day, I took my two viral cesspools to the doctor. First up was Palmer. Palmer had been waking up for the past two nights with icky poopy diapers. Like, seeping out the diaper, all over the sheets blowouts. It was like something out of a crime scene, only instead of blood, there was poop everywhere.

The doctor took one look at him and diagnosed norovirus. According to the CDC,  "you can become infected with norovirus by accidentally getting stool or vomit from infected people in your mouth." 

Are you seeing a pattern here? Because I am...

Next up was Henry. She examined his heiny and gasped at how red it was. (Let the record show, that this is not the first time I've surprised the pediatrician, and it's bound not to be the last).

"Now this, I'm not sure about" she said in her Polish accent, which is not what you want to hear from a pediatrician, fancy accent or not. "We'd better test for pinworms and strep."

SKkkkkkkkkkkkkrt. 

"Excuse me? Strep?" I asked.

"Yes, strep" she said as if I'd just asked her who the cutest New Kids on the Block member is. (I mean, Joey, obviously.)

"I don't...I mean...how do you...?"

"It's strep. Just not in the throat" she replied. "We're going to have to test for both. The lab will let you know in a couple of days what the results are." She handed me a clear plastic tube with a sticky spatula inside it. "The nurse will explain how to harvest the eggs"

I'm not kidding you, people, my jaw dropped. Tears formed in my eyes. The nurse's mouth was moving, but all I heard was 

"At night [Charlie Brown's teacher's voice]
 Flashlight [plane landing]
Spatula on the anus [pin drop]"

I mean... what. just. happened? Norovirus? Strep butt? HARVESTING PINWORMS?

I swear I'm going to reel this story in here in just a minute, but first Ryan and I decided the soundtrack for this portion of our life would best be depicted with "We Only Come Out at Night" by Smashing Pumpkins playing in the background, so if you would be so kind.

Since I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the sticky spatula thingy, I gizoogled it rather than googled it because I felt like if anything could lighten the mood, a little gizoogle could.  According to gizoogle, I needed to:

• Big up tha instructions given wit tha slide. Collect tha sample at night afta yo' lil pimp has been asleep fo' a minute or first thang up in tha mornin when yo' lil pimp wakes up. This is when tha pinworms is most active.
• Don't bathe yo' lil pimp tha night you collect tha sample.
• Take tha slide ta tha lab. Yo crazy-ass childz doctorz crib will call you wit tha thangs up in dis biatch.

SO, I figured that's why I needed the flashlight. I googled pinworm images to know what I was looking for and--STOP. Stop. Don't google it. Trust me. You don't want to see this. I am never going to look at orzo pasta the same. 

Anyways, I'm not going to go into too much detail on what happened next, but let's just say that it involved splitting my oldest son's cheeks apart whilst holding a flashlight in my mouth and pressing a sticky wand on his heiny. 

And here's the kicker. I did it all for nothing because SURPRISE!!! Henry had strep butt the whole time, not pinworms. Joke's on you, mom!

I'm not going to lie, I was NOT going to participate in this because I couldn't see the beautiful in this mess, but fast forward to Palm Sunday. 

Ryan and I finally got ourselves to church since our children had exorcised their respective demons. We were enjoying a quiet moment for once (because you KNOW our kids were in the nursery) and my pastor said something that struck me. He said our hour of glory was when Christ was on the cross dying for our sins because of what came after his death. Without the death, there could have been no resurrection. 

It made me realize, that if my life were not messy, I wouldn't see the beautiful. If my kids were healthy all of the time, I wouldn't appreciate their health. I have friends whose children are diagnosed with severe illnesses. Hollis's own nephew just had major surgery and can't walk for months. And here I am kvetching about my kids when some of my friends are desperately trying to have them. Reading some of the Messy Beautiful stories about childless mothers is enough to make me want to shut the front door.

We are all entitled to have moments when we just can't take it anymore, but the more experienced I get at life, the more I realize that it's the moments that bring us to our knees (like digging for pinworms) that make us appreciate the moments that make us jump for joy all the more. It's because of the mess that we can appreciate the beautiful.

But I'm still getting a maid.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

Shits and Giggles

Last night our friends, Hollis and Ricky, came over for dinner. They come over on a pretty regular basis since they live so close and we all have a mutual dependency on Ryan’s cooking. While he was grilling out back with Ricky, I let Henry loose on the deck since he loves to be outside at any given chance even if it means running away. I told Ryan not to let him run in the yard since neither of us has cleaned up after George since before Palmer was born. 

While Ryan and Ricky were grilling, Hollis was contributing the side dishes and I was contributing empty beer bottles. As 7:30 approached, I knew it was time to start getting Henry to bed. I went out back and said, “Henry! Are you ready for bed?” and he replied, “Yes, Mommy! I’m beat! Let’s go now!” Psych. He ran into the corner of our yard and screamed, “NOOOOO!” So I said, “Ok, five more minutes!”

It was then I noticed the string of grass trailing from his shoes and remembered that our backyard is a minefield. And it’s tiny. So your chances of stepping in dog shit are… hold on… I’m not very good at math… 100%. Henry had undoubtedly stepped in crap and I was the brainiac who put Crocs on him. I asked Ryan if he'd picked up any of the poop out back and he said, "Umm, some of it." Which meant none of it.

After the requisite warning period was up, I went out to ask Henry to come inside. Knowing that he wouldn’t go softly into the dark night, I poised myself for a face off. I would have to go into the minefield and catch him, like he was some kind of greased pig or something. 

After some maneuvering, I caught the little sucker and carried him whilst he was kicking and screaming, flinging shit off his Crocs along the way. Once I pried his shoes off, I saw in horror as he had shit caked in underneath his toenails.

I screamed and picked Henry up and Hollis hurried to help me scrub his feet in the sink. As Hollis scraped poop from underneath Henry’s toenails—

This is why we are friends

--We both noticed that the smell of dog shit was not going away. I started screaming again because I realized he’d sat in a pile of poop and it was now on my arm. Ryan and Ricky came in to see what was going on, and Ryan, ever the helpful one, was quick to shout out helpful directions like, “Dry his feet off!” Because that’s what I’m worried about when I have dog shit up my arm.

I yanked Henry out of the sink, undid his belt and pulled his pants and underwear down in one fell swoop. And that’s when I saw it. Poop Soup. There was at least a half pound of runny poop in his underwear. It was a cauldron of frothy feces. It was not only in his underwear but had seeped up and over into his jeans.

At this point everyone is screaming and I am covered in George and Henry’s shit. I started screaming, “Oh my GOD! What do I do?!?” Because what do you do? Really, what do you do? I grabbed the poop soup underwear with one hand and with a pinky on the other hand grabbed a plastic bag and threw them to Ricky. Meanwhile, Ryan and Hollis have sprung into action and are hosing Henry’s butt down with the sink faucet. I resisted the urge to ask them to close the blinds to the window over the sink because, well, there was shit everywhere and George was circling like a shark waiting for its next meal.  

It took us about an hour to all get cleaned up, get Henry to bed, and finally sit down to eat. Dinner was delicious, albeit a bit cold and overcooked, but nothing a few beers didn't take care of. 


So how am I enjoying this beautiful spring weather today? Picking up poop out back. Ain't that some shit.*

*Oh, c'mon! I had to throw at least one poop joke in here!

As If I Needed Another Reason to Start Potty-Training

Tonight Ryan was changing Henry's diaper while I was furiously typing away trying to get my grad school paper finished. I, wisely, decided to play the game I used to play as a little girl called "If You Don't Talk, They Won't Know You are Listening." This is what I heard:

"No, Henry! Don't touch it!"

"Oh, GOD! Now it's on your hands!"

"Dammit! We're out of wipes" (Hmmm... wonder how that happened).

"OH MY GOD! NO! DON'T RUB YOUR EYES! HENRY, STOP!"

It goes without saying that I'm pretty sure we are going to have a massive case of pink eye at my house any day now. It's a waiting game.

In case you are wondering, "Hey, Jacque! Have you ever had pink eye before?" The answer is, yes. The last time I got pink eye, I was on Spring Break in college in the Bahamas and my friend, Katie, had to walk me around at night because I couldn't wear my contacts. Totally safe to be blind. When you're drunk. In a foreign country. In a massive crowd of people.

So without further ado, let the potty training countdown begin! Six days!

This Is Why I Have a Dog

This morning as I was doing laundry (still), Henry came running through the room leaving a stink trail in his wake.

Before I continue this tale, let me explain that Henry is still not potty-trained. It's becoming a thorn in my side, especially since I keep getting coupons for Pull-Ups in all the diaper packages I buy. I also get them spit out at me when I check out at the supermarket as if I need more reminders that Henry needs to be potty-trained. Fuck off, Huggies. Don't you think I want my child potty trained? Assholes.

Anyways, I grabbed Henry and he wanted to go "poopy in the potty". And I'm all, "Sure, boss, but you're a little late there". I peel off his poopy diaper, put him on his potty, and shut the door because the kid likes his privacy in the bathroom, and who could blame him? I haven't gone to the bathroom alone since 2010. I give him a few minutes to do his thing while I toss his dirty diaper outside in the trash and when I open the bathroom door it's like... I don't even know how to explain this... like a poop bomb went off. Like Hiroshima. 

Henry is scooting across the floor like a dog with worms and there is a puddle of pee on the floor and an imprint of a butt on the wall made out of poop. There is poop smeared on the toilet and on the vanity and even on the air vent, like he wanted to air out his butt or something. I can't scream, but I obviously want to. It's a terrifying mess. Incidentally, the potty made it out unscathed.

Instead I smiled and with a trembling voice and through gritted teeth I said, "Wow! You are such a big boy! You went poopy and peepee in the potty!" Even though I want to scream, "HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK?!? JESUS CHRIST! OH MY GOD!" 

I take him and wipe him down with 23,455 wipes. In case you're wondering why I didn't just put him in the bathtub, you should know that putting him in the bathtub would just be more of a mess and a fight since he hates getting out of the tub. Plus, he'd wake up the baby which I needed at that moment like I need a litter of kittens.

So after I send him off on his merry way, I go to wash my hands and grab the Lysol wipes when I see George. Licking his chops. I walk to the bathroom and what do you know? Aside from the lingering smell of fresh shit, and a little puddle, there is no trace of poop anywhere. 

And this is why I have a dog.

George knows how to earn his keep.