My Life as a Parent: The Pride of Picking

Connor is 5 months old. He has a cold. He is still "snotty," my newly learned, (and apparently universally understood) mother term, but not nearly so congested and miserable as he has been. I'm thankful for small mercies. Although, I've had to become proficient with the suction bulb they gave us at hospital. Up to this point, I've been delegating the majority of any required suctioning to my darling husband; it's a dad job if there ever was one. It goes along with changing the most spectacular bowel movements, rectal temperature taking and the 3 a.m. post nursing walking and rocking while I lay in bed pretending to sleep while really having both ears and one eye on them wandering in the dark, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. It's only fair that we share the duties.

Unfortunately, the onset of the cold made it ridiculous to appoint suctioning purely to dad: can't make a runny nosed baby wait until after rush hour to get "cleaned out." I've taken the bull by the horns, or rather, the bulb in hand; I've made a game out of it.

"Let's get those snotties!" I twitter with a wide grin at my unsuspecting son. I snicker to myself. Connor responds with a giggle and a smile; he loves our new game. I try not to obsess over the fact I feel as though I've descended into some maternal madness, but rather am impressed that I appear to have succeeded in making a game out of virtually every circumstance.

Bulb at the ready-as well as tissues for extraction and cleaning the bulb (although baby wipes are also handy)-I'm prepared, armed and ready for the inevitable daily booger battle. I stand at the diaper changing table, suctioning out my wriggling, giggling son, and wonder when I stopped thinking of bodily functions as private but necessary facts of life. They are now not only noteworthy but the source of information, conversation and constant attention.

The things that once made me squeamish no longer have an effect on me. I was initially surprised when I found no disgust in tasting the food intended for the baby, even had to taste the breast milk. I take spoons out of his mouth and lick them, suck off the sippy-cup, and offer him partially chewed food. If it's going into my son, if he's going to experience it, I have to experience it too.

I've descended to new levels: I have become the bottom-smelling, urine weighing, poop inspecting, nose-suctioning monarch. Did I ever think the words, "hold on, let me see the poop" would spurt forth from my lips? Somewhere in these past five months, a subconscious belief has emerged, one that insists that by merely looking at someone else's bowel movements I will be able to determine his heath, dietary requirements, growth pattern and, quite frankly, current degree of happiness and fulfillment. There's nothing too revolting where my son is concerned. I'm assuming it'll be the source of constant entertainment to me, as well as the added bonus of an embarrassment to him, when he's older. How many times over dinner with new and unsuspecting girlfriends will I manage to fit in: "Shall I tell you what I DID for you?"

But I digress.

Back to the task before me: Connor is fighting me a little bit while I wrestle to find the best position for the suction bulb. I can see the source of his irritation, just can't get the bulb in the right position. To hell with this, I think. I toss the bulb aside and, finger at the ready; quickly and gently pull the offending specimen from my dear son's nose. Done. He's happy, I'm happy, and it suddenly occurs to me: of all the things I foresaw for my life-the events, the accomplishments, the successes, the failures-I never thought I'd find a source of pride in the fact I picked someone else's nose.