So imagine my surprise when the man who oversees the birth of more than 400 beings a year was squeamish at the delivery of one little baby. Contemplate my shock when the man who regularly spends the day covered in poo, is coughing and gagging over a dirty diaper. Granted, our son was famous for his volcanic eruptions of outfit-ruining proportions.
It turns out he's not the only one with a dirty job. This leaves me to change diapers in the back of the minivan while he helpfully gags and holds a plastic bag at arms length. I get the fun task of bathing our daughter after she spreads poo all over herself and her crib. When puke hits the bedding at 3 a.m., I'm the one wadding it up and heading to the washing machine.
When we were first married, I got urinated on by a gilt at one of our pig auctions. Note: NEVER stand behind a female pig. My husband told me to buck up, and I stayed in my wet jeans all evening--even eating at Bob Evans. I really wish I would have reminded him of that the time our son managed to get poo on his father's shirt, pants and shoes while wearing a diaper.
It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it.
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