Diaper Wars.


No one likes to change diapers.  You’re assaulted by shrieking infant-hydras, mad brachiating baby limbs, herculean diaper deposits, mountains of soiled laundry.  And the remains of a newborn’s umbilical cord, that crusty gorilla finger, further complexify the event.  You have to work around that dark passenger, taking care not to knock it off prematurely.  It’s ironic, the former lifeline is now an obstacle.

All this unpleasantness is cause for calculated abstinence.  Some parents (read: me) shirk their changing duties, especially between the hours of 11pm and 6am, prime-time for poopie and pee-pee.  My abstinence gives birth to an ugly dynamic–my wife (read: boss), the primary changer, ultimately gains control over other family affairs.  I’ve often professed to be the President of Our Family.  I’m now VP.

In order to remain parentally solvent (read: relevant), I change diapers with the flair of a WWF wrestler, attracting as much attention as possible (read: overcompensation).  I gyrate and howl along with the baby, our faces conveying an intensity rivaled only by the Ultimate Warrior.

The changing table is a tabernacle of sorts, where mystic knowledge presents itself.  Over the course of 2 children, I’ve come to know the crucial difference between how the sexes express #1.

Combat the male’s violent volcanic stream by employing a Pee-pee Teepee®.

Girls are much more cunning when they go #1.  It’s like watching a late-breaking curve-ball.  You don’t know it’s happening until it happens. There’s really no way to safeguard against this.

All this talk of diaper changing has me revisiting my journal, a week by week hard-chronicle of life with a newborn.  The following is an excerpt from Week 2.  Nothing is embellished or exaggerated.  Unabashed truth to follow.

Week 2: The Olympic Bowel Movement

This is the stuff of legend, a ripe story for the future, told in public to the mortification of the protagonist.   Jack’s on the changing table.  Mommy ceremonially unhinges the adhesive tabs.  The diaper’s bow unfurls in glorious slow motion.  Vaness reaches for a baby wipe.  The earth’s rotation abruptly halts.

Jack dirtily smirks, his abdomen tenses, forcefully shifting toward the colon.  A loud, primordial noise!  A cylindrical mustard colored shaft of matter speedily skirts the length of the changing table.  The Spicy Gulden® creation continues its trajectory over a chair, finally painting the far wall.

The boy’s Pollack-inspired creation, while not MOMA worthy, is still a cosmic wonder.  I have no problem clearing the devastation—if he’s pooping, he’s eating and if he’s eating he’s gaining weight.  Our next Pediatrician visit reveals an increase of nearly 1 pound, roughly the equivalent of a 200 pound person gaining 15 pounds in a week.

My advice?  Life is dirty–get involved.

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4 Responses to Diaper Wars.

  1. Matt says:

    Lmao! Really! What the hell is wrong w you?

  2. Tori Nelson says:

    This pretty much sums up my thoughts on parenthood: “shrieking infant-hydras, mad brachiating baby limbs, herculean diaper deposits, mountains of soiled laundry. And the remains of a newborn’s umbilical cord, that crusty gorilla finger, further complexify the event.” To summarize the summary: Parenting. Is. GLAMOROUS. 🙂 Great post!

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