I scrubbed dried shit out of my dog’s butthole fur for over an hour yesterday. I’m telling you this because nobody noticed (except for my dog, I’m sure). Not my daughters, not my mailman, certainly not my husband. Nobody ever notices.
It may seem as though I'm asking for accolades for my daily mom duties; acknowledgment that we do in fact get shit done. And that would be correct. Maybe I'm tired of my metaphorical stay-at-home-mom desk being absent of those fancy glass awards they hand out at "real" jobs: 'Most Innovative 2021.' 'Best in Sales 2004.' I know it doesn't take much brain-power to pull out my dog's dingleberries, but a simple, "Hey, the dog's butt is looking particularly clean today" would go a long way for me.
Matt and my brother-in-law went to the Ryder Cup last weekend, because, well, of course they did. And per usual, I planned a weekend of fun activities for the kids and my nephews that included pumpkin painting and playgrounds and destroying my house.
On Saturday, we loaded everyone into my car and headed to the pumpkin patch. My littlest nephew gave us some problems that day. He was the whiniest he's ever been and we couldn't seem to figure out the cause. I assumed maybe he's just not a pumpkin spice and everything autumn kind of dude, but fast forward to Sunday and a call from my sister: he's got the dreaded Hand, Foot, and Mouth virus.
Most people would say, "Awww, poor little guy. Hope he feels better soon." But most people aren't stay-at-home-moms with a Las Vegas trip coming up in ten days that they've planned with their best friends for a year now. Most people also don't have OCD.
This has consumed me. I've been researching Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease like a mad scientist. I think I may have found the end of the Internet. And in case you're wondering my level of exposure, my nephew clung to me all weekend like a drooling koala bear. I kissed those fat, slobbery cheeks and stuck french fries in his chubby wet hands. I was as exposed as a Vegas showgirl. (How DO they get those booby tassels to swing like that? Fascinating.)
The adult cases I've found of HFM disease sound horrifying: hands and feet so painful that one cannot even walk. How am I supposed to stumble around Vegas in my new size twelve, wide-width stilettos? Can I crawl from slot machine to slot machine? And will my blistered fingers be able to hit max bet at a fast enough pace to blow through my budget on night one?
I know that I make this sound light-hearted and silly, but OCD is devastating: it's not the casual, "Oh, I'm so OCD about little Benjamin's lego bin" or Susie making her hangers all face in the same direction. It's an actual chemical imbalance; a monster in my mind.
Last month I feared touching my daughter's tiny frog aquarium (thanks to my mom for that disgusting gift) because one of the little dwarf frogs had a white cotton substance growing from its body. After much research, I came to a horrific realization: there was a fungus among us.
Someone asked me the other day what it felt like to have OCD. I’ve been thinking about that question. Simply put, it’s like having one of those old CD Walkmans jammed inside your brain and the same horrible song just keeps skipping and skipping. And it's not a delightful Britney Spears' ditty. It's Nickelback. Or Creed.
There’s no reprieve; just the same thought over and over on repeat. It’s utter exhaustion; a marathon in my brain with no finish line in sight.
I've coped through it all these years with counseling, Prozac, humor, and buttercream icing. Prior to my hand-foot-mouth exposure of all exposures, I went on one of my super smart crash diets to fit into my pre-selected Vegas wardrobe that somehow shrunk in my closet these past few months. Ten days with no carbs and I successfully dropped a quick five pounds. Here I come Vegas: mama is ready to rummmble.
And then I popped into a bakery. I was in Springfield yesterday morning purchasing a cookie cake for our neighbors who are moving, and I convinced myself I had enough self-control to simply buy this one dessert and leave (hahahahahahahaha).
I walked into that cake shop, and I swear the smell of that buttercream icing had me floating over to the display counter like some magic potion.
The lady at the register asked me if I wanted anything written in icing on my second cookie cake, and I paused for a moment until deciding that "Best Dingleberry Picker 2021" simply wouldn't fit.
I've always wanted to be a writer. But I'm not writing. Instead, I'm sitting in a parking lot and staring at a tree while eating my feelings and paranoias and inadequacies; a sugary cure for my OCD and stay-at-home-mom exhaustion. Wait. Is that a blister that just appeared on the palm of my hand? False alarm. It's a red sprinkle.
I went home and cleaned up the kitchen. I put dinner in the oven and changed the laundry for the third time that day. I disinfected the toys in case Barbie contracted Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease, and I looked around to see that despite my efforts, the house still looked the exact same. I then finished that damn cookie cake like the champion I am, and I casually tossed the empty container in the trash can. I didn't even bother hiding the evidence. It's not like anyone would notice.
