When I was pregnant, the “advice” of established parents drove me crazy. I saw how their kids behaved in public. All screamy and snotty and disobedient. And they wanted to roll their eyes and throw some stupid cliché at me?
They didn’t know me. They didn’t know how I was going to raise my kids. Who were they to be all condescending? And when they shot some matriarchal garbage about how I needed to make my husband change as many poopy diapers as me or else he’d just stop one day and I wouldn’t notice until it was too late, I stopped listening.
They certainly did not know my husband. He was all manly and tough. He was covered in tattoos for crying out loud. Why on earth would I get stuck changing all of the poopy diapers?
I’ve since learned of a strange phenomenon that occurs in many a man’s life. When they’re young, most are disgusting. They kill frogs. They pick their noses in public. They grab their balls (at all ages). They pass gas to pass time and they specialize in poopy jokes.
And then, to my utter shock, I learned that there is a male stage of labor. It is when he expels his gross factor.
For instance, when one of my closest friends gave birth, her husband insisted on seeing the placenta. She warned him it was kinda slimy and purple and brain-like, but he was all “I’m a man, show me the after-birth already.” So the doctor handed him the plastic tub containing the placenta and he ran into the bathroom and puked.
And this other new father (who was not my husband, even though I so wish it was) took on a poopy diaper so that his wife could finally slip into a hot shower for the first time in several days. She closed the curtain and heard her daughter scream on the top of her brand-new lungs. She rushed into the baby’s room to see her offspring covered in vomit.
Her husband’s vomit.
He actually yakked on his daughter because he was so grossed out by her poop.
I think on these stories often, because I have realized that I too am my family’s crap trap. Whether it’s picking up after the dog, changing TWO or re-wiping ONE because she’s not interested in doing a thorough job, I’m the one with the wipe. Or the grocery bag. My husband doesn’t refuse to change diapers or anything, and he helps out when he’s needed, but it somehow just became part of what I do.
I have no idea how it happened, but I HATE those moms for being right.
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