The name “Mother of Drool”, a play on words from “Mother of Pearl”, describes the paradox I feel between the ugly and beautiful parts of parenthood. There is incredible privilege in shaping these amazing little people. It reminds me of the safety and nurturing environment an oyster provides to form a pearl. The love, patience, and effort creates something admirable, precious, and valuable. Great things come from great effort.
But the process isn’t always pretty.
My offspring’s ability to produce an unruly amount of drool and spit up demonstrates the grossness of parenting. On their worst days, my babies could have filled a “Big Gulp” cup. The slime adorned every part of my home in those first years. One afternoon I was hit with a spit-up tsunami that drenched my front side, streamed into my armpit, down my back, down the back of my leg, and there was still plenty left to make the horrid “splat” noise on the floor. In that moment I said, “I’m the mother of drool”. That was my life… breastfeeding, not sleeping, and cleaning poop and barrels of spit-up with hundreds of tiny cloths. It’s a humbling, gross, yet beautiful existence. My kids are out of the baby phase now, but they still manage to drool a lot.
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