Oh, the standards, how they have plummeted...

There's definitely an element of parenthood that involves tolerance of all kinds of disgusting bodily fluids. From the day my son was born, he has spit up on me, puked on me, bled on me, pooped on me, and blown raspberries on me. It just goes with the territory.

I've known so many people -- usually men -- who, before having kids, insisted that they absolutely could not deal with changing diapers, and no matter what anybody said, they would figure out a way to let the wife handle the bulk of that parenting responsibility.

And I just smile and nod and think to myself, "Mmmm hmmmmm. You just keep telling yourself that, sweetie."

Even Jason was like that. He knew that there was no way I would ever let him foist all diaper duties on me, but he still expressed his doubts that he'd ever be comfortable changing Zeke.

But of course he figured it out and by now is a pro.

I think I knew I had the proper tolerance for disgustingness when Zeke was about a week old. I was sitting in the living room with my mom, holding Zeke after giving him a bottle. And I guess he had a little more than his teeny belly could hold, because as I was resting him against my knees and cooing at him, he suddenly opened his mouth and deposited about 6 ounces of regurgitated baby formula down the front of my shirt. My reaction: my eyes grew wide, I looked down, unable to quite comprehend what had just happened, and then I just started to laugh.

"Honey, you're a natural," my mom said.

But this latest example of how low my standards have fallen might alarm even her.

Last night, we were doing our nightly ritual of the pre-bath game of naked baby chase. Zeke ran into my room and down towards my bathroom at the end of the dressing area. He was standing there giggling when I looked at the floor and noticed that he had deposited two little poop nuggets on the bath mat. They were perfectly formed little poops, easy to clean up, so I just picked them up with some toilet paper and dropped them in the toilet.

No big deal.

Meanwhile, he took off on another circuit of the upstairs part of the house.

After a few minutes, I decided it was time for Zeke to get in the tub, and I picked him up and sat him on my right shoulder.

You can probably see where this is going.

I walked with him into the bathroom, plopped him into the bath, and then sat on the floor next to the tub and watched him splash around.

At one point, Jason looked over at me, gave me the Survivorman face, and said, "what is that on your shoulder??"

I looked over and lo and behold, there was a little greenish-brown smear on the shoulder of my shirt. It was Zeke's poop.

"Didn't you smell it?" Jason asked, incredulously.

"Nope."

And the really horrifying thing is, a part of me debated whether to get up and change right away, or to wait until I was ready to take a shower before bed.