Oh, man. I end every day with a dunk in the tub to scrub other people's body fluids off of me. Wonder if I can convince the fashion industry that drool- and breast milk-jeans are the new acid-wash. (Also: How fast can I strip out of a pair of pants? Not as fast as poop soaks into them, it turns out.)
Only I can't bathe now, because DH is in the tub. He contracted a stomach virus and spent yesterday evening face-down on the living room floor, groaning loudly, because that's how he approaches every ailment.
He got a doctor's note this morning, came home, and spent the day quarantined to the bedroom, passed out in bed with his nose mushed onto my laptop, surrounded by Gatorade bottles. I guess he deserves the tub more than I do.
Only I can't bathe now, because DH is in the tub. He contracted a stomach virus and spent yesterday evening face-down on the living room floor, groaning loudly, because that's how he approaches every ailment.

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