I really feel badly for Will these days. I’m sure that to him, our home often feels as if it should have a “sewage treatment facility” sign posted on the roof. He spends a huge amount of time dealing with a variety of wastes and does so, if not with a smile, at least a huge amount of graciousness.
It all started a little over a year ago. He was feeling a bit guilty about the balance of household responsibility and was searching for a major chore that he could take ownership of. We have always had a fairly traditional allocation of gender-specific tasks; I do the bulk of the cleaning, cooking, and laundry, whereas he’s in charge of “man work:” anything that needs fixing, car stuff, or electronics. While his tasks have been altogether more infrequently required than mine, when you consider that he’s fixed my car more than a dozen times (for free or damn near close to it), it’s a worthy trade in my opinion. Additionally, most of the time cooking, cleaning, and laundry don’t bother me. On those rare occasions when I have been a bit too tired or overwhelmed to take care of something, we go out to eat or he pitches in according to what I need done.
In any case, as he was searching for something to do around the house, he opted for taking care of the cat boxes. We were starting to discuss trying to become pregnant, and it was something he would need to do anyway for fear of the dreaded toxoplasmosis. Fast forward to today, and he has been single-handedly dealing with the urine and feces of 3 rather unruly black cats.
On top of this, now we add Stella’s Output. Our 8 pound little girl has filled up a Diaper Genie twice already (we’re on the 3rd round), so we’re talking two times per week. We’re reading that that’s pretty typical for a breast-fed baby. Still, I feel bad for poor Will. His official household title is now “director of waste management,” whether it be attending to the cat outhouse or pulling out giant poo diaper-filled plastic sausages from the Diaper Genie.