As we were changing the baby after the latest before-coffee diaper blowout (a two-man affair, as he tends to stick his hands in everything), I turned to Hubby and teasingly asked if he knew that marrying me would bring so much shit into his life.
When we met, he was a single guy with no pets; with my cat and dog, I soon introduced him to the joys of litterbox scooping and the big spring doggie doo yard round-up. We added a couple more of each, and he learned about indoor doggie ‘accidents’ and litterbox misses, not to mention the occasional (and sometimes not-so-occasional) blood and vomit that pet ownership typically brings.
Now, Hubby is also acquainted with the joys of mucking out goat stalls and alpaca enclosures. Chicken coops don’t phase him, either. He’s dealt with afterbirth and pus. He doesn’t even blink at puke on the floor, regardless of species. Regarding critter poop, he’s come around from his original stance of “Ewwwww” to “how much of this can I put on the garden?” – quite a turnaround, if you ask me.
As he was scrubbing stinky, sticky baby poo out of the latest casualty of a sleeper, he assured me that, while it’s true that I’ve brought quite a lot of shit into his life, “it’s the good shit”.