Regardless of the general smarts or lack thereof, I wore shorts and flipflops while doing feeding this morning. I was already in shorts, and it was just too much hassle to get changed beyond grabbing my more grubby flipflops rather than my "nicer" ones that I was wearing at the decision time.
It's quite a dance to keep my feet out from under the baby boys' pointy little toes. The big girls aren't so pushy, because I might grab one of them for medicating or other indignities. The big boys are usually pushing each other around rather than aiming for me or my bucket, so if I can stay out of the crossfire, I'm good. But those yearling boys are quite the mama's boys still. "Hi, Berry. Off my tush." (He'll stand on his back legs and put his front feet on my rear end to encourage faster forward motion. It's far cuter than butting me in the backs of my knees, but still not a good habit.) "Gyre, you have to move so I can walk." "Scout, I can't fill a feed bowl you're standing in." Etc.
But no, I did not sustain any injuries or major muddiness that could have been avoided with other attire. ... This time.