Spit-up rag code

From time to time, I ponder what it is that makes me a lesbian dad more than a lesbian mom. Since to all the world, I’m a mom, if one goes by the familiar calculation: female anatomy + parental status = mom. Yet something’s different. I’m not your mother’s mom, let’s say that.

One sign, among many: how I prefer to stash my spit-up rags. After several years of pro gardening work I accustomed myself to stashing the work gloves in the back pocket. So when it came time to keep a good spit-up rag on my person, quite naturally it got stuffed in the back pocket, as illustrated above (in both formal and informal variations).

I should note that when the beloved doesn’t have a rag parked on her shoulder, in active use underneath our lil’ peanut, she simply leaves them lying about, to be scrambled after when he sets to unexpectedly hurling. Which he is wont to do. She is equally at a loss, of course, when her cell phone sets to unexpectedly ringing, which it is wont to do. Or when she, or more often I, need ready access to her wallet. She’d find both cell phone and wallet easily in her pants pocket, if only she wore pants like mine. Which she never does. What she looses in practicality, however, with her pocket-less womanliwear, she gains in the way of va-va-voominess, and who am I to complain?

Does my treating the spit-up rag like a shop rag make me more dad than mom? Who knows. Some would say where I stash it makes me a wanker (top). Go figure.