I bet if you googled this topic, you would find thousands - maybe millions - of blog entries written by mothers, some semi-hysterical, detailing the “Things I’ve Had to Do that I CANNOT BELIEVE I Had to Do.” Most would involve bodily fluids of some kind, though not always from our children.

In my house, if it involves something someone emitted from either end, it is not only My Responsibility, it is usually also MY FAULT.

The dog got into something and lost all bowel control in the middle of the night? Mom!! She was thoughtful enough - good girl! -  to hit the easiest spot in the house to clean up, though - the linoleum floor of the upstairs bathroom. That particular out-of-control-bowels episode lasted for days, and the low point came when I was forced to brandish a pair of scissors and really big bucket of soapy water to deal with the… residue. Roxie is mostly golden retriever, meaning she has “bloomers”, which are extremely thick, fluffy areas of fur on her nether regions. Long haired dog + diarrhea = EWWW.

And the cat. The cat. I am new to cat ownership. WHO KNEW cats throw up ALL THE TIME?? Not only hairballs, which blend right in on our hardwood floors and are really, really disgusting to find with your bare feet after they have had a chance to cool. Oh, no - she also horks up her dinner on a semi-regular basis, for reasons which remain a mystery. My husband has a preternatural talent for stepping in cat puke, after which he never fails to reminds me with completely out-of-proportion venom that it was MY IDEA TO GET A CAT.

I will point out, however, that HE is the one who helped us determine that our new kitty was lactose intolerant, when we got her a year ago. Lactose intolerant kitty + bowl of milk = diahrrea… Long haired kitty + diahrrea = EEEWWW!

In a perfect bit of irony, I just returned to my keyboard after going on a mission to get a soccer ball out of my flower bed. On the return trip, I almost stepped on the carcass of a little mole that looks to have been dead long enough to get kind of juicy…. And unless I want a horrifying segue into another Gross Moments entry entitled “Who the Hell Washed What the Hell in this Sink?!”, I better go dispose of the remains before one of my kids decides to prepare it for proper burial.

In years past, I have spent most of the Mother’s Day weekend in a very bad place, emotionally. My older children and husband have needed some… constructive criticism, shall we say?

Like, “A card would be nice.”

Or, “If I say I don’t want to do the dishes on Mother’s Day, that does NOT mean I want to do them all the following Monday morning.”

Or, “All I REALLY WANT SERIOUSLY if for all of you to clean out the cesspool on wheels that I drive.”

This year, in spite of the fact that we hosted a sleep-over for 12 year old girls on Saturday night, was one of my best Mother’s Days ever.

Part of it was this little guy:

Zoe made him for me, and he is the perfect paperweight for my desk. And though it is hard to tell from the picture, he is VERY EARNEST.

And I have a clean truck! Mike will not tell me what he found under the seats, or why those guys from HazMat were here, but for the first time in longer than I will publicly admit, my truck is CLEAN. Amazing how that makes a 1997 Suburban feel so much more luxurious! I love that truck.

And my mother-in-law, who I sincerely loved with all my heart BEFORE this, left me a beautiful basket of pink petunias and another annual I just can’t remember the name of right now as a surprise on my front porch. I smile every time I look at it! I LOVE flowers. Well, and shrubs, vines, grasses, trees… pretty much if it grows, I like it, with the exception of dandelions and poison ivy.

And the biggest thing, I think, is that I just decided to be happy this year. I did not fall for the saccharin hype, and I had realistic expectations. I knew I had to work, and that I would wind up cooking, and that sooner or later I’d have my hands in dishwater. And so goes the life of a mother, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.