Pregnant women make me sick. Literally. So does the smell of freshly applied wallpaper, the Before These Crowded Streets CD from The Dave Matthews Band, lotion from Bath and Body Works, and walking into my ob/gyn’s office.

Don’t get me wrong…pregnancy is a beautiful, amazing, miraculous process, and I think sharing a child with someone you love is a wonderful gift. But, I was not a glowing, happy, expectant Mother. I was sick. A lot. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I threw up every day for months. Not just the first trimester, but through most of the second as well.

Ordinary odors usually sent me running for the nearest restroom. Luckily, I had some seniority in the office where I was working and I had all sweet smelling lotions, sprays and perfumes banned from the department. Some things, like walking my dog and picking up her poo, were unavoidable. I would try to hold my breath, but would inevitably end up gagging and retching in my neighbor’s yards. How attractive is that picture?

But, it wasn’t only tummy upset. I was actually sick, sick. I developed some freakish auto-immune disorder that only affected me when I was pregnant. I blew up so big that if someone had tied a string to my foot, they could’ve entered me in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. All in all, I can’t say it was a pleasant experience until my children were actually outside of my body.

So seeing, hearing and smelling things that remind me of that time tend to make me queasy. To all the pregnant women who are at their best and feel so good when they’re pregnant, I’m really happy for you. But, don’t be offended if instead of stopping to chit-chat with you, I hurry myself along.

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I just dropped off my son at preschool. Well, not so much dropped him off as pulled in, waited for a retired fellow in an orange vest to direct me to a parking spot, and walked 40 yards into the school with an eager five year old, a school bag, and a snack bucket big enough to hold snacks for 20 kids and three teachers. You should see the parents with more than one kid. When my daughter was in preschool I was one of them. Holding a big infant carrier, along with all the other stuff, was quite a balancing act.

Actually, I could just drop him off. They have teachers and parent volunteers in a “drop off zone” where parents can pull up and someone will open the door, reach in and unbuckle your kid, then send him or her into school. It’s not that I don’t think my son could manage getting to his classroom unassisted; it’s that I don’t want anyone to see the inside of my car.

Not only is there the typical Cheerio assortment all over the floor, but there is an accumulation of various crumbs inside my son’s seat. I can clean it out, but those crumbs are back within a couple of days. It’s like they multiply on their own or something.

There is also a black stain on the rug, but I don’t know where it came from. And, there is a sticky substance just inside the door…the door those volunteers would have to open to get my son out. I can NOT de-stickify the spot either. I’ve tried everything, but it remains tacky nonetheless. And, I can’t forget the time my husband saw something on the floor and leaned down to smell it, only to find out it was pee. Either my son is extremely flexible, or someone snuck out of their car seat without me knowing.

A quick glance in my back seat will reveal small tissue paper squares, and green pipe cleaners. They’re just lying on the seat in case one of us gets the urge to make a paper flower. There is also a soccer ball, a styrofoam star covered with glitter, a broken umbrella, various happy meal toys, and a maraca.

Paper flowers, a glittery star, and a maraca…I could throw a fiesta! I’m sure if I just looked hard enough, I could find myself a burrito.

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Having a child with health problems, a child who almost died from a bacterial infection, has made me quite the germophobe. I am constantly washing my hands and have little bottles of anti-bacterial gel in every bag or purse I own. Not too long ago, I even pulled out some gel at church and used it after my son had shaken the hands of fifteen different people during the sign of peace. No offense folks, but I don’t know where you’ve been. My husband was so embarrassed that he gave me a bogus grin, then I heard him mumble under his breath, “I didn’t sign up for this”.

My children are ordered to wash their hands IMMEDIATELY upon entering the house after school, and I NEVER let them use a drinking fountain. When we enter a public restroom, my son is told to keep his hands on his belly and not touch anything. Preferably, he just uses the potty I always keep in the car, which I have lined with kitty litter bags. It has kept him off many a public toilet seat.

I have taught my daughter to push elevator buttons with her elbow, and how to open a restroom door with a paper towel, then shoot it across the room into the trash. It’s like basketball camp, only without the basketball, court, or scoreboard.

The grocery store we go to has recently put out disinfecting cloths so we can wipe down the cart before my son’s hands touch it. No one can detail a shopping cart quite like me. Those little car-carts are always so sparkling and clean that people are probably expecting me to tap on some custom rims and add hydraulics. My son could run into his friends and hear them exclaim, “Dude! Sweet ride!”

But, despite my efforts, my kids still get sick. I hear it’s good for them to get sick once in awhile, because they’ll be stronger for it when they’re older. Well, good! Because, if that’s the case, my son will be the picture of perfect health when he’s an adult. Then he can shake all the hands he wants.

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Sigh…I looked at my eight year old daughter this morning and couldn’t believe how big she suddenly was. It was like she sprouted up a few inches overnight. She was only 2 pounds 9 ounces when she was born, and that baby…that little, teeny, tiny baby who could fit in the palm of her father’s hand…well, she could NOT be the same child I see before me now. It’s like this new kid just gobbled up the other one. A dingo didn’t do it…a third-grader ate my baby.

As we near her 9th birthday, it’s hard to think that her life in this house is almost half over. Nine years from now we’ll be nearing her 18th birthday and she’ll be entering college shortly after that. How is that possible? The years since she was born have flown. They’re a blur really. Day to day crap didn’t eat my memories, it devoured them.

Today before I sent her off to school, I gave her an extra hug and kiss. What more can I do really? I can’t hold on to her forever, though there are days I wish I could. There are times I wish I could hold that little two pound baby in my arms…go back to a time, after she got off her heart monitor, when I didn’t have to worry about her so much. When there was no hustle and bustle of school, homework, sports, life. I want to yell at her, “Stop growing!”

And yet, there is so much joy in watching her mature. She is smart, funny, extremely kind and generous, a wonderful big sister and friend, and not a bad softball player either. There’s no doubt that life won’t always be a breeze with her. We know we have battles ahead. So somehow, someway, I have to find time to enjoy her while she’s young. Just for today, I’m going to take the day to day crap and shove it where it won’t get in the way. Just for today, because tomorrow is only nine years away.

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