I Was Not Prepared for How Gross Parenthood Is

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I grew up in Virginia. I know manure type by smell and butchered cows on my grandfather’s farm throughout my childhood. I figured my squeamish threshold was pretty high, but nothing prepared me for the grossness of motherhood.

It started when I heard my daughter’s placenta slither into whatever bucket or bowl the hospital kept down there. I was basking in the relief from natural childbirth pain when I heard the distinctive plunk.

“Glad I didn’t see that,” I thought. Little did I know, I was about to see much worse.

The first time our precious offspring blew out a diaper, my husband and I stared at the poop spreading up her onesie in shocked silence.


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