I feel like this should come with a warning: This post mentions pus, blood, spit, vomit, and FEET. Skip it if your tummy’s feeling fragile already.
I think feet are gross. I’ve noticed this is a “thing” because Alan obviously doesn’t feel the same way. He thinks nothing of resting his feet on a pillow that his FACE will later lie on; he’ll happily pick at his toes and then TOUCH OTHER THINGS! WITHOUT WASHING HIS HANDS! It’s GROSS. Even when he massages my feet, my “Aaaah, that feels lovely!” thoughts are tainted by niggly “But he’s TOUCHING my FEET” thoughts. GROSS.
I, on the other hand, am convinced that there are few pastimes more pleasurable than twirling snot out of a baby’s nose with a cotton tip, while Alan gets gaggy at the sight. I also like pus, and looking at the roots of hairs I’ve pulled out. My sister-in-law’s eardrum burst the other morning and I found myself wishing I could be there to see what was oozing out.
I can cope with a little blood, but I can’t watch operations, even on TV shows when I know it’s not real. I’m also not great with placentas; my midwife was examining Hazel’s and joyfully explaining which parts of it were attached to me and the hole where the bag had burst and Hazel had come through. She stretched and marvelled, while I tried very hard not to vomit. “I GET IT! IT’S AMAZING, ETC.!! CAN IT PLEASE GO AWAY RIGHT NOW?!” *shudders*
Speaking of vomit, the other day my sister reckoned she could watch someone spew and it wouldn’t make her feel as sick as seeing spit on the ground. I think both would be too much for me; even typing this paragraph is making me queasy. I’m going to put vomit and spit up the top of the list, with feet. GROSS.