As a young, or younger man, I was not known for an ability to deal with things commonly found queasy.
Quite the opposite really.
I was regarded as squeamish, do not know why, other than turning ashen whenever there was a bit of claret about, and, being excused from school safety videos as there was a high likelihood that I would vomit.
But, these things are totally normal, right?
Okay, it is true, while generally akin to a house-brick in most facets, I could genuinely be considered delicate when dealing with the unpleasant.
Not the best preparation for parenting.
However, I was hopeful, like with a lot of other things, when-push-came-to-shove I would ignore my irrational feelings, and crack on with the necessary.
Those hopes were quickly realised, just a few minutes before our son arrived in fact.
I was asked if I wanted to see my child’s head - as he was crowning – I virtually leaped to the action end of the delivery suite, without even giving an answer, smacking my head on the medical spotlight as I went.
My wife was full of emotions, laughing at my misfortune, but also proudly reminding me that I would normally wince at things not nearly as gross as seeing a baby’s head covered in all kinds of bodily fluids, starting to protrude from a vagina, coupled with the aroma of such a scene.
But, it seems, parenthood had me instantly cured of mucky nausea.
And it is a good job.
With my son a little off-colour this week, I have been cuddling him while he vomited, as his comfort is infinitely more important than the phlegm and semi-digested food projected upon my person.
I was never really good at being sick [see above] and as I expect my child to be doing plenty more of that over the coming years, I hope for different for him, thus I believe, my calm intimate comfort may help with that.
Cleaning up the mess, while not pleasant, is not really any worse than ironing. In fact, I would probably take cleaning up sick over ironing, as it is over much quicker.
Events this week actually reminded me of a particular cleaning lowlight, scrubbing recently diarrhea soiled pants in the toilet bowl, while my ill child, desperate to expel urine, gave no warning that my hands were about to get a warm shower. Delightful, but again, I barely noticed the vulgarity of such a scenario, instead chuckled, most likely.
Thus, in summary, parenting for me is totally gross, disgustingly positive, and worth every single pillowcase scrub, bottom wipe or back seat cleanse, a million times over.