I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a work husband. We have an interesting and always-shifting relationship (platonic, of course) in which he alternates between behaving like an older uncle-type figure and a silly little brother. He’s a life-long bachelor with no kids. He lives to exercise, drink beer, and watch football. He’s a riot. On 2 major occasions he was a total savior to me by doing all of my site inspections when I was out on maternity leave (and tagging along occasionally on long rides when I was about-to-pop pregnant, “just in case”). He makes me laugh and I help him with spelling and his Xmas shopping each year.
He and I live vicariously through each other to the extent that he has no interest in being married with kids and I could care less about football and beer. Still, he gets to hear about my kids and their/our adventures and I get to hear about his dates and debaucheries. It’s a working system.
I completely disgusted him the other day. It was great. He had it coming. He tries to make me smell his revolting shoes all the time.
I was mentioning –over lunch, no less – that Felix had peed on me in the night and that I had had to make the ultimate decision to just stay covered with pee until the morning. He was revolted. As a bachelor, he doesn’t realize the ramifications of middle-of-the-night diaper and outfit changes resulting in at least one crying kid, fumbling in the dark for clothing, and the great probability that the pee-er won’t go back to sleep. If you just accept the pee into your life for a few more hours (You’re already wet, right?), you can simply roll over with the kid, stick a boob in his mouth, and both of you can resume slumber.
It’s gross, but it’s survival.
I would never ever be that cavalier about poo.
At the very least, I’m helping my work husband remember to use birth control.