This gross-out reflex didn't stop at adulthood. One summer when I was home from college, I spent a week babysitting my cousin Clayton, who, unfortunately for him, had to wait patiently whenever he had a poopy diaper while I left the room three or four times to gag and gain composure before I could finish the job. Each time I stepped out of the room, I'd say, "Just a minute Clayton. It's o.k. I'll be right back." And when I stepped back into the room, he had of course moved just enough on the diaper to smush the poop around causing me to gag even more.
Once I had my own kids, I outgrew my gag condition fairly quickly. What choice did I have? Everyone said I would but I didn't believe them. They were right, though, and I have managed to gain control over the gag reflex. Not that my boys don't try to gross me out. I have been assaulted with burping, farting, booger wiping, snot stains, chewed up food spitting, dirty underwear, urine in odd places, poop up the back, and projectile vomiting.
But with all of the training, all of the building up of defenses, nothing quite prepared me for this:
I now have to deal with this spitty mouth guard that oozes drool that gets placed on surfaces only known by Luke and then put back in his mouth and has to be sterilized and I find it all over the house covered in gunk and it is just disgusting.
I also have to deal with this *ahem* cup that Jack loves dancing around in with his sliding pants on like a baseball stripper down to his last garment but that I find sitting on things like the kitchen table and who wants to see a cup sitting on the eating surface whether or not it actually has come into contact with his goods and pieces?
I knew sports would be dangerous and competitive, but I had no idea they would add this new level of gross-ness to our house.