After raising a son, all my fantasies about men were shattered

After raising a son, all my fantasies about men were shattered.
My six-year-old son is like a walking disaster. His clothes remain clean for maybe an hour, his pants acquire knee holes within two months, summer brings perpetual mud-stained hands, and winter decorates his sleeves with white snot... And no, he's not a spider or a centipede; he only has two feet, yet he manages to create a sea of socks wherever he goes. Don't even talk about washing them; picking them up is already a mission impossible.