The Fountain of Youth
I’ve found that my son doesn’t particularly like to pee in his diaper.
I suppose that isn’t entirely odd; I wouldn’t want to either. It is
cramped in there. He’s freshly circumcised, so it can’t be too
comfortable. To top it off, you have to wait for daddy or mommy to
recognize your discontent and free you from the task of laying in
your own urine. It doesn’t sound nice at all.
That’s why Cam has thought of a much more efficient system: go when
daddy takes off the diaper. It’s about as glamorous as it sounds.
It’s also not so bad. At this point – about six days in – hazardous
waste duty is just part of the job. The worst part of the occasional
random shower is that it will often soak his outfit, resulting
in its share of dirty looks and upset crys as I remove and then add
two layers of clothing.
What about me? The pee on my shirt is a
(hopefully) tiny badge of honor. The poo on my hands is merely a
flesh wound. The wife and I cackle at the sights and sounds that
greet the other during each diaper changing exercise.
The wife was having a good chuckle about one particular episode until
she realized her foot was wet.
Ever wonder why parents have simply no shame
when it comes to their kids bodily functions? The dad who holds
the kleenex and says, “BLOW!” has been here. The mom who spit
shines the unknown material from a forehead has lived it – morning,
noon, and night. A week in the trenches has me primed. I can only
imagine what a tiny lifetime will do.
I’m sure that, in time, he’ll outgrow this little problem.
While I wait, I have a another, slightly larger problem: yellow,
breast milk shaken, projectile turd squirts. Duck!
