It's kinda amazing how quickly a parent gets re-acclimated with being covered in another person's body fluids.
With the first kid, we were grossed out for months. But by the third? You just don't give a shit.
Pee? As long as it's below my elbows, we're cool. Easily washable. Thankfully.
The closest I've gotten to being grossed-out this time around was when Emerson angrily pooped on me a few weeks back (when I was still on antibiotics for my mastitis, and boy howdy did those drugs make him an angry pooper) and it was everywhere: my shirt, my pants, my arms, the floor. I think I even got some on my shoulder and in my hair.
But I calmly changed him. Stripped down. Strapped him into his vibrating chair and took a shower.
Given how overdue I am for a shower, this situation is sounding rather lovely right now.
And spit up? Last week I dreamed I was on Dancing with the Stars and Mark Ballas was my dancing partner. He didn't like me much, probably because I kept interrupting the dancing to nurse Emery (and because I bitter that I didn't get to dance with Maks). Right before it was stage-time, he got really pissed because I was just covered in spit up. So the makeup artist decided to glitterize me. Because that was the only way to disguise the amount of dried spit up I was sporting.
That would have come in handy this morning, while at the grocery store I realized my left arm looked like a white, powder-y mess. The big, dried wet marks across the shoulders just highlighted my awesomeness.