God bless The Man

Our regular evening routine: The Man is in the bathroom, watching The Kid having a bath, and I'm standing in the kitchen mixing up food for The Dog.

I'm somewhat more nauseous than usual so the thought of the slosh I'm about to mix up (we feed her raw food so her bowl is a soup-like mixture of vegetables, chicken meat, vitamins and water) prompts me to head towards the sink with a familiar, loud "Gaaaack!"

"Would you like me to feed her instead?" The Man calls out from the bathroom. I think for a moment and then sheepishly accept, "Yes, thank you, please..."

We switch roles: I head towards the bathroom and he comes in the kitchen.

Whilst I am standing in the bathroom a familiar churning starts so I clear the sink of all the Duplos and quickly toss them in The Kid's bath, and then resume swinging my weight from foot to foot now above the bathroom sink.

For a few minutes I stand like that, breathing in and out, in and out. A mild breeze comes through the open window - it's refreshing and it makes me feel better. I look out the window and sigh - it's a beautiful evening outside.

I straighten up and turn towards the bath, ready to start interacting with my child and play with his Duplos. But then... I pause.

Whilst I've been standing above the sink, he has shat, pardon my English, in the bath - alongside Duplos and an array of other plastic bath toys now float chunks of baby poop.

"Oh..."

I consider for a moment taking up the task myself, but my eyes well up at the thought of it and my bottom lip starts quivering. Sheepishly I walk back to the kitchen where The Man has only just finished feeding The Dog.

"Sweetie," I say, sheepishly. He doesn't hear me over the clatter of dishes in the sink. "Sweetie!" I say more loudly.

"Yes?"

I'm about to start talking, but instead, I start crying first instead. I so want him to know that he is doing a wonderful job helping me and that I really do want to help him, too, but... all I can think of is that he's taken care of The Kid almost the whole day, and he's come to feed The Dog, and now I'm about to tell him there's shit in our bath alongside The Kid and could he please, please go clean it instead of me, because even the thought of doing it myself makes me have images of vomiting in the bath.

But I've got to ask.

And so I do. "He's pooped in the bath," I say, lip quivering, tears welling.
"He's pooped in the bath?"
"Yes."
"Oh sh*t. Literally."

"Could you please... Could you please... clean it up?" I am a little embarrassed to even be saying this, but I feel like a fraudulent failure, making my husband head from one household task to another whilst I sit on sofa chairs and sleep on couches and grumble elsewhere.

But this, this is what it's like. This is what a household with a young family in it is like.

He gives a little sigh, and he hugs me, and then he goes and cleans our bath, and The Kid, and the Duplos, whilst I resume a position by the kitchen sink, swinging my weight from foot to foot and breathing.

2 comments:

  1. Sounds like he's a keeper to me, when the going gets tough, the good ones stay and help.

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