When I was a kid, my mom was the one who took care of us when we were sick. My dad might help out, but when the chips were down (or, er, coming up) in the middle of the night, it was Mom who got out of bed and dealt with the puker.
Family lore tells the story of the time my brother got ridiculously ill - and failed to "aim" correctly. For several hours Mom changed sheets, cleaned the bathroom, and otherwise dealt with the contents of Younger Brother's stomach. When my dad woke up at 6:30 AM to get ready for work, he surveyed the cleaning supplies, sniffed the air, and inquired casually, "One of the kids get sick last night?"
Today, I got a glimpse of the puke-future.
I was putting on makeup and getting ready for a morning meeting when Cute Boy came into the bathroom.
"I think the dog threw up," he announced.
"You think he threw up, or he threw up?"
"Well, I mean he threw up kind of."
Finnigan does this thing where he gets coughing attacks and kind of spits up, so I inquired, "Was it spit, or actual puke?"
"It was mostly actual puke. I think."
"Yep. I'm going to go now," he said. "Bye!"
"Ok, I'm going to clean it up. Where is it?"
"At the end of the bed."
"ON THE BED?"
"No, on the floor."
"Ok, thanks babe."
I have seen -and cleaned- the future. And while there are no babies imminent for Cute Boy and I (we're kind of enjoying that thing called "dating" right now, thanks)I do plan on having them someday, and I do assume that at some point they will puke.
And now I know whose job that will be.