I knew when I first became pregnant with Sister that I was likely signing up for all manner of disgusting tasks. I distinctly remember the first time I thought to myself, "Yep, I'm a real mom now." It was when Sister was a year and a half old. She had been asleep for about half an hour when I heard her calling for me in a weak, pitiful voice. I went in to see what was wrong and when I picked her up she promptly threw up what felt like buckets of baby hurl down the front of my nightgown. That is, inside the front of my nightgown. And then threw up all over the sheets, the comforter, and the floor.
Since then, barf has practically become old hat. Ditto, diarrhea and all manner of nasal secretions. That's just part of the parenting job description. So I don't know why when this morning I went to get Bean's stroller out of my car and discovered that it had been left under the house eaves all night after Husband borrowed my car yesterday, and then I unfolded it and discovered that not only was it not dry, it was also covered with no fewer than 23 slugs I felt squeamish. Slugs in the garden, no problem. Slugs snacking on the moist remnants of old Cheerios and bloated raisins in the baby's means of neighborhood transportation is just nasty.
Not part of the job description.