I think I might be somebody's mom...

In the past week, I've had both vomit and poop on me simultaneously.  I think I can officially call myself a mother. 

No, there is no DeMeester bun in the oven (although that sounds like it would taste delicious), but after the week I've had, I can't help but wonder if I've stepped off of the cliff into the deep abyss of semi-motherdom.

To my mommy readers- I absolutely understand that I will never know what it's like to be in your shoes until there is a Justin 2.0 running around my home, but until then, I feel that I've earned an honorary mommy badge. 

Please allow me to introduce the hellions:

This is Hank the Dog.  The sunglasses say it all. 

My husband got Hank during college, and needless to say, Hank grew up in a fraternity house and never learned any manners.  What does Hank do best?  DESTRUCTION. 

At various points in his lifetime, he has had all of the following pass through his GI tract (do dogs even have those?): dry wall, linoleum, remote controls, cell phone chargers, cell phones, shoes, ties, a dress, all manner of soft doggie toys, a child's plastic ring that topped a cupcake, cupcake wrappers, cupcakes, half of a birthday cake intended for my brother in law, any other type of pastry he can get his teeth on, a green ink pen (disastrous), portions of our Christmas tree (ornaments, branches, and light cord), DVD cases, DVDs, the back of a couch, and three sets of blinds.  I'm certain I'm forgetting some items. 
How he manages to digest all  of these items with no apparent problems baffles me.  I'm convinced the doggie gods graced him with a trash compacter instead of a stomach. 

This is Charlotte.  She's a Chihuahua; therefore, she's got attitude to spare. 

Charlotte is 100% my baby, and she knows it.  We got her during an afternoon run to Petsmart for dog food.  We didn't get the dog food, but we did come back with Miss Sassy Pants here.  Poor Justin didn't understand the power a cute little dog can have over women like me.

Charlotte's favorite things?  Feet wearing fresh, white socks, sleeping in blankets, eating everything she can find, kicking her dad's ass at play fighting, acting like a diva, and generally being a boss.  If you cross her, she'll let you know with a well timed growl and squeak.  It's pretty funny to watch her chew someone out in her own little way.

But Charlotte is also a surreptitious pooper.  If she has an accident in the house, you won't find it until weeks later when you go poking your vacuum into some corner that doesn't usually see the light of day.  

And this is Savannah, our in-resident tomboy.  She looks awfully cute, but she's a terror.

Savannah was a whoops baby.  A happy accident, if you will.  When we got her, she was six pounds and the vet estimated she wouldn't grow to weigh more than fifteen.  Currently, she weighs about twenty-five.  Good call, doc.  Despite a complete lack of blood affiliation, Savannah takes after her brother.  If she was a human, she would like to climb trees, play with frogs and bugs, and get in fights with boys at the playground.  I'm constantly pulling her out of something she shouldn't be doing.  There is a distinct possibility that she might also think she is a cat.  I've never seen a dog rub against people's legs the way she does.The biggest frustration, however, is her insistence that she pee and poo all over my nice hardwood floors instead of using the lovely grass that is provided for her OUTSIDE.  But LOOK AT THAT FACE.  HOW CAN YOU BE ANGRY AT THAT FACE!?

So last Monday, Charlotte was acting strangely mopey, and I was a little worried at her less than perky attitude.  I had gotten down on the floor with her to hold her in my lap.  Five seconds after picking her up, I found out why she was moping.  She desperately needed to vomit, and guess who took the brunt of that force?  You got it.  Yours truly.  You know that overwhelming feeling of relief you get right after you throw up?  That look was written all over her face. 

My reaction was pretty comical.  Here I am covered in fresh dog sick, doing my best to keep it from leaking onto the floor, petting my dog and telling her "It's okay, sweetie, it's okay," the same way you're mother did when you were a kid and had a belly ache. 

After establishing that she was fine, I went rushing to the bathroom to rinse myself off, and as I turned the corner to go into the bathroom, I slipped and fell into...you guessed it, a rather large pile of dog diarrhea.  I sat there for a moment because the fact that I had all sorts of dog fluids on my body hadn't quite sunk in, and then, I started to laugh.  Because the old me, the me that hadn't yet learned what it's like to love something selflessly, to get up for 3 a.m. potty runs, to cry when you're scared to death that a being you love is having seizures and you are powerless against this thing that you don't understand, would have been disgusted at this situation.  But this new me could only laugh, get in the shower, get the paper towels, the Clorox wipes, the mop, the Febreze, and go back to my dogs without caring about the rather nasty things I had been covered in. 

And in that moment I knew...in a unique way, I'm somebody's mother.