Like Wrestling an Ungreased Pig

I can't think of many tasks of maintaining Liam's hygeine that I dread like cutting his nails. I mean, as a parent, I partake in more disgusting experiences since I've had a child than I ever thought possible. My friend Marianne pointed this out while we were at the park on Tuesday. With no tissue handy, she was doing a barehanded nose squeeze to Mikayla and wiping the results on her jeans as she said, "The things I never thought I'd do."

I mean Liam is just over 14 months old and I've been puked on, pooped on and sneezed on. Pretty much the gamut of bodily functions. I know in the next ten years I'll add "bled on" to the list, but hopefully just from scratches. No need for life altering blood incidents like I gave my parents when I cracked my head open on a radiator (falling from a chair when attempting to get myself a brownie off the kitchen counter. Mmmmm... brownies.)

Weekly and daily tasks seem to get more and more challenging as the baby becomes a Real Boy. I once posted about possible events in a Parent Olympics. But sometimes I feel like my day has become a triathalon. There is less napping which means less opportunity to catch my breath. I pretend not to be scared that he is barely walking yet, not yet running... but I suppose that makes the race more of a flat out marathon, right? And if you ever saw me run, you would know... it won't be pretty.

Diaper changes depend on Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. Who will be laying in front of me? Mr. Hyde who lays smiling and laughing and playing with a toy. Or will Dr. Jekyl appear (usually in combination with a wet poopy diaper) and writhe and twist until I swear I am holding him on his head by his ankles. If only you could hear my pathetic pleas... "Please Liam, please just one more minute... almost done. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo...." This last cry is usually when he reaches down and decides to wipe his privates himself with his bare hands... use your imagination to determine where the hands go next.

But what I dread... really dread.... is trimming his nails. During the summer it was easier because I would take him outside on the front steps and he would be distracted by the cars and bike riders going by. By the time I got to the last nail he was done, but that was ok because so was I. Now? HA! Cars? Trucks? Who CARES, Mama! I want the dirt and the peebles way over there and I want to crawl because it's quicker and who cares if you got these cute pants at BabyGap. I don't! HA! I mean WAH! WHINE! STRETCH! BEND BACKWARDS! STIFFEN! FLAIL!

So trying to trim the nails is like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. Picture wildly moving hands or feet and me clutching sharp shiney instrument. I almost have iiiiiit...damn. Ok just stay still one second lonnnnnnger... ugh. By the time I get one of his hands done, he has me pinned to the floor and tied to the coffee table with his shoelaces.

Advice welcome, Lucy.

The Getaway