The Bet

Once upon a time just before J and I got married, I ran a children's shelter program.  Working at shelter one night, a sweet little girl came over to me with a trembling lip, and arms outstretched.  She was about two, maybe three.  Poor thing, she had little tears in the corners of her eyes.  Poor little angel.
I knelt down and opened my arms up wide, to scoop her into a hug.  She came over to me.  She wrapped her skinny little arms around my neck.  And then.
BWIRLARF!  She puked. ALL. OVER. ME.  Aaaallll down my front.
Poor kid.  Well when I got home that night, J was beyond disgusted.  To say he was grossed out would be like saying Hitler wasn't the most polite guy ever.  He was horrified.  How, he asked me, how could you let that happen?  Why would you do this to yourself?
I totally laughed at him.  Let it happen? Let me tell you, I said.  This stuff just happens.  There's not a thing you can do about it, it just does.  This is just kids.  It's what happens with kids.
He did not believe me.  Seriously!  He didn't.  He was convinced that yuckiness like that was unnecessary; certainly avoidable.  Nothing like that would ever happen to him, he said. 
I was laughing again.  Let me tell you, hun.  Let me tell you, I said, it could, it can, and it will.
He was all, what?! Nuh uh! Will not!
And I was all, oh yes.  When you have kids, let me tell you, you will get puked on.  You will get puked on, peed on, pooped on. Bled on, snotted on, teared on, sweat on.  You name the bodily fluid, it will get on you, and you will just deal with it.  Because you can't avoid it.  It happens.  Let me tell you, it just happens.
He was now at a level of disgusted horror that honestly, Peanuts, should be saved for a field trip to the slaughterhouse or something.  How could I say such things?  Peed on? Him? Uh uh.  He rejected the notion.
We went back and forth- no it won't! Yes it will.  NO it won't! Yes. Yes it will.  Not to me! Let me tell you!
Finally, to close the matter, one of us came up with The Bet.
I'm not a betting person.  I have gambled once at a casino, when I turned 18.  I lost my whole 5 dollars, and never tried it again.  But I know four aces when I see one. 
The Bet was that when J had kids, all of those things I mentioned- peed on, puked on, etc,- would happen.  TO HIM.  Maybe not all at once, but at some point during his parenting career, every one of those things would happen to him. The stakes were that if all those things actually happened and he lost the bet, he would owe me a trip. To Hawaii.
Well.  Little One took care of most of those within the first year.  But J.  He is a sneaky little ace-up-his-sleeve.  He claimed a technicality that I apparently forgot to preclude in the fine print of the Bet contract.  It was that the wording of The Bet said "on".  Peed on, puked on.  Most of these things, as I said, happened fast.  Let me tell you, Peanuts, they happen! And they did.  But there was one.
One last hold out, due to the technicality. It was poop.
The thing is, even though he did get poop on him, while washing out a diaper or changing clothes after an accident, he did not actually get pooped on.  He had to have a direct hit in order for the Bet to apply, he argued.
I thought that was silly.  A hail-mary for a man that knew he was going down, and wanted to go fighting.  Splitting hairs, to be sure, in my opinion.  But. I also knew that it didn't matter.  Because all I needed was time.  The inevitable, well.  It's inevitable! Let me TELL you!
Enter Little Miss.  Little Miss of the 15 poopy diapers per day.  It's like the child was born just to get me onto a beach with a mai tai.  Bwa ha ha!   The man was doomed.
And a couple of weeks ago, he came to me, head hanging. Defeated.  As much as he held on to that technicality and weaseled his way out of it for a good long time, it's a testament to J's honest character that, although I was (very unfortunately) not there to witness it, he did 'fess up to a full-on frontal hit.

And so The Bet has finally come to a close.  And what can I say?  I told him.