I’ve only told a few people what I’m about to tell you, and the reactions have been either contempt or respect with practically nothing in between. The contempt came exclusively from women, while the respect came from men. One of my female friends called me an “asshole”. One of my male friends called me a “genius”. So, I guess that means if you’re a woman, please let me apologize in advance. But if you’re a guy, then listen very, very closely.
Weirdly, this has very little to do with the sex (kind of, but I’ll be getting to some sex a little later in the blog). I’m sorry for the big windup, because it’s really not that Earth Shattering a revelation. Here ya go-
I don’t do shit diapers. I just........don’t. Sorry, not my job. Why? I’ll tell you.
When Mrs. Huttsez and I met, she made it clear very early on that she would be wanting kids. As I had a 7 year old son from my first marriage and was about to turn 40, I had no desire for more children, but I REALLY liked the future Mrs. H a lot. So, I said-
“Ok, we’ll have kids, but I have two conditions. We have the sex 2-3 times a week, and I don’t do any shit diapers. If you agree to that, you’ve got a deal.”
“Really?! That’s it?! Yes! I agree!” We hug, beautiful moment, everybody’s happy.
Now, I asked for those two conditions based on past experience- the sex stopped in my first marriage after my son was born, which oddly, I had a problem with. And the fecal prowess that my son displayed in his pant-crapping-glory-days made me vomit in my mouth more often than I care to admit. It was not an easy time for a guy with a hair trigger gag reflex, so I had plenty of impetus to work the diaper thing into the deal with Mrs. H.
Was this a sneaky move on my part? Well, yes. It was. My wife didn’t really know what she was agreeing to. She had no comprehension of the fetid rivers of baby poo that would be surging out of our daughter, breaking through the levee of her diaper so to speak. I did. Thus the “asshole” or “genius” moniker.
According to the women, I was not sharing in the responsibilities of caring for my daughter. I was a dead beat dad in their eyes- weaselling my way out of an unpleasant task and placing it squarely on my wife’s shoulders. Taken purely on it’s own, I can see their point. But you know what? I don’t care. Sorry. A deal’s a deal.
My man friends slapped me on the back and applauded my foresight and negotiating skill. They then kicked themselves for not working that little gem out in their own relationships. Hindsight being 20/20, and all that.
When my daughter craps her pants, I just give a shout to Mrs. H that she needs a change. Every single time. I think I’ve probably only done about 20-30 shit diapers in over 2 years. Shazam!
It hasn’t been easy keeping my wife happy with the deal. She started to have doubts about it around the 6 month mark when we introduced solid foods, and the “trucker after 3 days of McDonald’s” smells hit her nostrils. I would gently remind her that we had a deal- “But look at your beautiful little girl!” trying to smooth over the cracks (no pun intended), and she has held up her end of the bargain admirably.
It’s not just a one way street. I do plenty of things to even out the scales of parental responsibility, the biggest one being that my wife gets to sleep in every weekend. For real, every effing weekend I get up with my daughter so Mrs. Huttsez can have a jolly good rest, and I know she appreciates it. Just like I appreciate her doing all the poo changing. We both think it’s a pretty fair deal- we hug, beautiful moment, everybody’s happy. Maybe I’m not such an “asshole” after all, eh?
Ok, I’ve come clean about my underhanded negotiating tactics. I leave it to you to decide between asshole and genius.
I’d like to talk briefly about negotiation.
I worked out those two conditions in advance of my daughter’s arrival. I communicated my needs and desires to the missus and she agreed to my terms of mutual parenthood. I negotiated the shit out of that shit, AND tossed in the “sleeping in for life on weekends” clause (albeit later) to show my appreciation for all the sweet loving I was getting, and for all the turd tsunamis I wasn’t.
Call it whatever you like- communication, negotiation, arbitration, blah blah blah. Without healthy and open discourse in a committed, long term relationship, it’s gonna be damn near impossible to stay together. Seems pretty obvious to me.
So, if you get really good at communicating (negotiating) with your partner, I see no reason why you can’t stay together... forever. You’ll be happily swimming in a sea of poontang, not changing shit diapers.
OR, blow off the whole “working-things-out-so-you-both-get-what-you-want” approach, get no pussy, and change all the shit diapers. Hmmmmm. That’s a tough choice.
Time for a train ride.
Train Of Thought Time
Good communication is the corner stone to a successful relationship
Without it your relationship will fail
If you get really good at communication, you and your partner will find a way to meet each others needs
The majority of men would agree that one of the biggest “needs” is the sex
Which you can successfully communicate/negotiate for
So getting good at communicating will get you laid
Or not change diapers laden with crap. Or not unload the dishwasher. Or whatever it is that you “need”. So start negotiating! Work it out, people.
On a side note, I know that I’ve been a bit sweary in this blog. Just so you know, I’m way swearier when I talk. In fact let’s do a quick review of the rude words I’ve used. This is mostly for me- kind of an experiment because I think I’ve held back the deluge of swearing that lives in my soul, and I’d like to see an accurate accounting of rudeness.
“shit” is the winner at seven
“asshole” came in at a solid five
“poontang” only once (which is a crime)
and “pussy” once
That’s only 14 rude words out of around 1,000. You know what percentage that is? 0.014%. Zero point one four percent of this blog is rude. Which means that 99.986% is good clean material suitable for any reader. Thanks for bearing with me through that little experiment, I found it very illuminating. I mean fuck me, for fucks sake! I didn’t even fucking say “fuck” once!
Now that science has verified how much I’m holding back, I stand before you a proud man, saved from a life where expletives are commonplace. It feels good.
That’s it for now.
I may not change shit (8) diapers, but I tweet- @huttsez
Come on, go and “like” huttsez on facebook, it won’t kill you.
Thanks for reading. See you soon,