Friends of ours have a beautiful baby with a tragic flaw - drool. I decided that I’d have no part in baby bodily fluids when Junior came along.

No spit-up. No pee. No poo, thank you.

Under threat of divorce, it wasn’t long until I started changing Junior’s diaper, and well, there’s not much more to be afraid of. Right?

I’m on my second shirt of the day, the former pee-drenched thing sent to the laundry basket. I’m used to burping and bile so this isn’t so bad. At least urine is sterile.

But there’s so much more in store: his first meal of mashed potatoes, the dreaded flying pasta, and his first bought of the flu.

I’ve gotten along well with his uncontrollable fluid releases, but will it last? With my logic of “little boy, little messes,” it’s just a matter of time until “little” turns into “bigger” and “big.” Then I’ll break out the biohazard suit and latex gloves.

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