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I’m in the shower at the end of a long day of cleaning up puke and snot and nursing a sick toddler. I’m allowing the hot water to run on my stiff lower back while I mindlessly stare at my towel, which is draped over the shower curtain.

After a few moments of this, I notice a piece of lint on the towel is moving.

I lean closer. It’s not lint.

It’s a gross little pale, worm-like insect. No longer than my pinkie fingernail.

I watch, transfixed, for a few moments as it migrates over the rough terry cloth terrain.

Finally, I turn off the water, wrap myself in a different towel and use a tweezers to move the wormy thing to the toilet. I flush, thereby giving this creature a permanent relocation to the sewer system and technically preserving my clean record of not intentionally killing bugs. (Swim, you creepy bastard!)

In the bedroom, I pick up a pair of pajama bottoms from the floor. I’ve only worn them once since they’ve been washed. They’d been on the back of the chair, but the baby likes to sweep everything from the rocking chair onto the floor because TODDLER.

I also put on a t-shirt, which I am less sure about, but whatever. I’m too tired to go downstairs for a clean shirt.

Anxious to absolve myself of responsibility for the wormy towel, I find Ben and begin quizzing him on his towel hygiene methodology.

I insinuate that someone who is not me is responsible for this.

Ben points to my right hip. “Well, you’re the filthy one. What is that?” He starts convulsing with laughter.

“What?” I look down at my light blue pajama bottoms. Something dark red — something that’s both fuzzy and gooey at the same time — is sticking to them.

It is a moldy, half-eaten strawberry.

Apparently, after the toddler sweeps all my semi-clean clothes onto the floor, she spits partially masticated food onto them for good measure.

I start convulsing with laughter and hysterically explain to Ben between gasps, “I knew the shirt was dirty, but I was sure the pants were clean!”

Somebody help me.