I always figured my career as a reporter would come in handy once I became a mom. After all, those traits that had served me so well in journalism seemed applicable to motherhood — the ability to think fast on your feet, determination, a love for research, etc…
Yesterday, however, I realized that my years of mama experience have improved my job performance considerably.
Nothing fazes me anymore — the poop, the pee, the vomit, bloody wounds, etc…
Which is why I didn’t even flinch the day one of my co-workers threw up in the trash can next to my desk. Having survived The Autumn of the Rotovirus, a little splatter on my purse and feet was nothing.
And yesterday, when a man I was interviewing popped out his artificial eye and plunked it onto my notepad, I didn’t gag, although I admit that stifling the impulse took all of my concentration.
One minute we’re chatting and the next there’s an eyeball staring up on me. Right on top of my scribbled notes, people!
“I figure since you’re a reporter, you can handle this,” the man said.
No, actually, the only reason I’m not conked out cold at your feet is because I once had to wrangle my daughter’s half-peeled-off toenail back into position so that I could stick a bandaid over it. Even so, omg, there is an eyeball — freshly removed from someone’s socket — on my NOTEBOOK!!
“I’m not touching it,” I said weakly.
My biggest dilemma was where to look. At the man’s empty socket? Or at the grossness artificial eye on my pad?
At one point, he picked up the eye. I thought he was going to put it back in (pleasepleaseplease), but instead he waved it around for emphasis as he told me all about the wonders of modern medicine. Then he put it back on my notepad.
I tried not to notice that the eye was leaving a wet spot on my notes.
Finally, he picked it up a second time and began the process of putting it back in.
“I usually can’t do this without a mirror,” he said.
“Oh, really?” I said. “Why’s that?
“It makes me nauseous,” he replied.
Dude. What do you think this is doing to me?
After much fiddling, he turned to face me.
Only the white part of the eye showed, giving him a bit of a zombie appearance.
“Is it in right?”
“Er, no,” I answered, praying I would remain conscious. “Your iris is still up by your eyelid.”
I am proud to say that we finished the interview without me yakking up my Diet Dr Pepper further incident and parted ways amicably.
I returned to the newsroom with one helluva story and the assurance that nothing — not even poop the size of a small submarine — would ever faze me again.
If you made it through this post, I applaud you. Ever considered a career in journalism?