Motherhood is gross

Whenever Tom's Pop-Pop's nose whistled (as noses sometimes do), his very proper Nana would say, "Maurice, you have a canary in your nose."

Today, Jack had a canary in his nose. Evidently, some excavation was in order. As I sat there, with my pinky finger up another person's nostril, I reflected on all the disgusting things that I've done over my last two years of motherhood.

First, I want to preface this by saying that I am one of the most squeamish people about this sort of thing that I know. I can't watch police procedurals on TV, because all the gory crime scenes and squishy sound effects turn my stomach. Heck, there's an episode of "Elmo's World" where Mr. Noodle's brother Mr. Noodle puts his shoe in a basin of a water and then puts his face in right after, and it makes me gag every time I see it.

And yet, because of this one little person, I have done things without batting an eyelash that I would otherwise find unthinkably repulsive. Aside from the aforementioned nose-picking and unavoidable diaper changing, I have eaten things that Jack has chewed up in his mouth and then spit out. Once, when I held him up over my head when he was an infant, he spit up a little and it landed in my mouth. Another time, something out of his nose landed in my mouth. (I decided then I should stop holding him up over my head.) I have been French-kissed by a blood relative. I talk to and about the contents of Jack's dirty diapers as if they were precious, cherished friends, complete with their own cutesy nicknames. We fondly wave "bye-bye!" to these friends at least twice a day as they swirl their merry way down our toilet bowl.

This is the version of motherhood they never tell you about. For some reason, "Mom, thanks for removing that booger that was keeping me from breathing freely" doesn't make it on Mother's Day cards. But even though you can't pick your child, you can pick your nose and you can pick your child's nose.

You can, and sometimes you must. So you do.

Must be love.