All it takes is an open lid to a summer garbage can. Yup, one little pile of squirming maggots and my façade crumples like a cheap face lift.
At our house, I don’t deal with maggots, blood, infections, icky things, mold, puke, random shit accidents or the ultimate – a drain clog of my own hair and toothpaste.
Nope – blue jobs are clearly laid out in the marriage agreement. I am a warrior Valkyrie most of the time, except when there is some kind of fluid leaking out of my children or pets.
If I am going to have to deal with the good and the bad that comes with living with a big stinky boy in my house, my bed and my bathroom he has to hold up his end of the deal.
I will do my part. For instance, it is my job to make nice nice with that annoying school Mom who just has to talk endlessly about her amazing naturopath, if he deals with that cyst on our dog’s ass. That is a fair and equitable trade. I will handle birthday party shopping, and remembering the names of all the snot nosed brats who play at our house, and he has to scrape whatever that green stuff is that is growing under our hot water tank. I will smell it, and point it out, but that is the end of my role.
Because I love him, I make sure there is always a box of rubber gloves and Lysol at the ready. Nobody told me when we decided to set up house and have a family that I would need a constant supply of those two particular items.
Our anniversary card this year will read: To my lover and friend: thanks for putting your hand into smelly messes for me.
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