It’s amazing the things you learn to tolerate once you become a parent. I’m not talking about namby-pamby stuff like toys on the floor or crayon marks on the wall. Ha! Don’t insult me with such insipid nonsense. No, I’m talking about the real deal. Bodily fluids, snot, and the family of not so fluidy excretions that can and do emerge from small people with stupefying regularity. It doesn’t happen overnight. But gradually, with each exploded diaper, with each time you touch someone else’s half-chewed food, it starts to become… normal.

I used to cringe when my son urinated on the changing table. “Oh, God! He peed on me!” Then it just became something to report, you know, at bedtime. “Your son peed on me today.” “That’s nice, goodnight.” And then, it somehow became not worth mentioning anymore. Think about that. It doesn’t seem right, does it? If you get peed on, someone should know!

Tonight I was up to my elbows in steak-rice-carrot vomit (mmm… vomit) which I actually caught with a towel as it flew out of my son’s mouth. You should have seen it. It was like a double-play. I was closer and noticed it first. I called for backup. My wife threw the towel she was using to dry my daughter’s hair. I dove and… he gets the runner at second! And the crowd goes wild!

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when I was rinsing the towel out in the sink and washing my hands, that I realized just how gross this was.

It was a good catch, though.