I thought I had already done all the things that qualify me to be called a mom.
I've been peed on.
I've cleaned up puke in the carpet at 2:00 am.
I've hosed down a toddler whose diaper exploded, spreading its contents from neck to knees.
I've wiped away boogers without a kleenex.
I've dealt with poop in bathwater.
(I could go on, but you get the gist.)
But today I earned a new badge of Momhood. It seems that Sasquatch has a raging case of poison ivy, with the greatest concentration in the area, uh, south of his tailbone. Down in the valley, shall we say. And guess who gets to administer the itch cream?
Why is it that Dadhood is earned by doing fun stuff with one's offspring, like teaching them how to belch the alphabet, showing them how to crush a can on their foreheads, and helping them memorize all the lyrics to Frank Zappa's "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow?"
No wonder we moms need chocolate. It's our hazard pay.