As I was picking poo up off the carpet for the umpteenth time, I pondered this fact. When I was a lot younger, even watching someone vomiting on television was enough to provoke several reflex heaves in me. Mention of toileting, bowel movements or passing wind of any sort was not tolerated (I still can't think of the word
If someone had told the younger me that I would one day hold my bare hands out to accept all manner of "offerings" from my children (which have run the gamut from squashed slugs or beetles, to nose pickings, to dog or horse poo, to human poo and projectile vomiting), I would have laughed in their face (okay, I would have heaved first, then possibly laughed in their face). Yet, clutching the hot, heaving little body of my eldest as he threw up again all over me, the couch and my beautiful Persian carpet, there was not one thing in the world that could prise me away from that moment in time. It was priceless for the very fact that I could be there for him at that time, that when to the world he was at his most unlovable, I loved him fiercely and protectively and wanted to be there for him. My own wishes and desires became nothing compared to his needs.
Being a parent changes you fundamentally. Chances are it is only the parents or those of very strong constitutions that have made it this far into this blog without feeling a bit queasy. But it is a good change. Being a parent is not about being perfect, but it is something that perfects us. It is more about us growing up to be good parents than it is about us rearing a good child. When we can work that one out, we are starting on the right track.