Now that we are no longer spending enough money on Pampers to keep Proctor & Gamble executives rolling in the hookers and blow, I have a confession to make:

Mr. Husband has changed more diapers than me.

Yes, you read that right. Despite the fact that I have always been the primary nighttime care provider, and the fact that I was home with Alexis for the first six months of her life, he changed her diaper more often than I did. Easily.

Weekends? He changed nearly every one. Last change of the day? He got those ones, too. The really stinky ones? Almost 100% his problem.

That part wasn't exactly his doing, or my doing. It was all Alexis. For as long as the kid could speak, she has been saying, "Daddy, I poopy," and asking him to change her. She could be sitting with me on the floor playing with Play-Doh while Mr. Husband was all the way upstairs doing something constructive, and she would stomp her way all the way to him to get changed, without so much as a whisper to me.

I didn't exactly try to stop her. I know a good thing when it passes me by.

Real men change diapers and I totally married a real man.

(It's Play-Doh, people. Don't be getting any crazy ideas in your head.)