The not-so-mighty hunter

Each year, Hubs heads into the woods and — with the exception of one terrible, never-to-be-mentioned-ever-again season — emerges with at least one buck.

After driving it around so that everyone can ooh and ahh over its magnificence, he takes it over to Uncle A.J.'s, where the deer is hung upside-down on some hook-thing.

I will spare you the details of what happens next, but let me assure you — it's a gory business, this hunting.

I have, on one occasion, helped Hubs drag a dead deer out of the woods. (But only because I was so desperate to pee that I would have bagged Bambi myself if it got me to a potty.) I do not, however, hang around while he dresses his kill.

Ick.

So, no, deer-hunting's not my thing.

I indulge Hubs in his hobby, however, because for the next year, we will use up every bit of venison — deer spaghetti, deer chili, chicken-fried deer, deer sausage biscuits ... etc... etc...

What I do not condone is the Deer Hunter's wussiness, which flares up whenever he encounters vomit, a bloody nose or a particularly scary diaper.

Sunday morning, I raced to E-man's bedroom after hearing Hubs' frantic calls.

The blasted man was retching — RETCHING! — over the poop stench.

"Here," he gasped, shoving the box of wipes at me. "I have to get out of here."

And he fled.

The night poor Tootie threw up in her bed, Hubs left the room dry-heaving while I cleaned up the child, gathered the puke-covered sheets and mopped the floor.

The night she fell out of bed and bloodied her nose, Hubs took one look at his red-splattered T-shirt and freaked.

"Is that blood?" he yelped, thrusting Tootie at me. "Oh my God!"

And let's not forget the toenail incident, when Hubs called me to Tootie's room in a panic because an injured toenail had started to come off.

"Look," he said, pointing helplessly. "Half of it is standing straight up! What are we going to do with it?"

And yet — despite these many examples of faint-heartedness, Hubs has the nerve to make fun of his younger brother Burt, who, on his first (and only) hunting trip, ended up straddling a deer and trying to finish it off with a box cutter he happened to have handy because of his job at Piggly Wiggly.

(Burt was so traumatized by this event, that he has never set foot in the woods again.)

But then there is Hubs, who goes on multiple hunting trips each year. And even if he doesn't get a deer, he always helps dress other people's kills.

If not for this, I might — might — give Hubs a little leeway when it comes to scary diapers.

But he doesn't get to SHOOT A DEER and then go weak at the knees over a little poop or vomit.

I mean, really. Am I being unreasonable here?