Has it really been two weeks since I last posted? Well I’ll be better from now on. I hereby offer this embarrassing story as a penitence for my lack of blogging. Also, I promise this will be the last baby-related story I tell for a while. I remember when my friends had children and all they could talk about was their kids. It made me want to hurt them (My friends, not my friend’s kids … jeez, I’m not a monster).
The lead up: There is a real possibility that my son, who is now two weeks old, has been trained by a special infant division of the Marines. He has somehow developed deadly, assassin-like accuracy with his bodily functions, which I know he’s doing on purpose since my wife never gets peed or pooped on. He does like to mix up his attacks though. I think he makes a game out it. He’ll sometimes wait until the fresh diaper is half-way on before launching an attack, which he does because clearly he gets a kick out of seeing how many diapers he can make me go through in a single changing.
“C’mon, Steve,” you say. “Getting peed and pooped on is all part of the game. It happens to every parent. Plus, going through diapers is just something that happens. It’s hardly anything to be embarrassed about.”
Ah, yes. Very true. Let me explain a bit further and see if your opinion changes.
The other morning I woke up and realized we only had six diapers left. Surely enough to satisfy the morning needs of my little boy. I figured I’d change him, have a shower and a bit of breakfast, and then run to the store – no real rush. Little did I know he had picked that particular morning to launch: Operation Shock and Awe. In the course of a single changing, utilizing guerrilla tactics and remarkable bowel control, he went through five diapers. Two of which were, sadly, collateral damage (I had inadvertently placed them too close to the blast zones).
It wasn’t just the diapers that got marred in the cross fire. The little guy managed to position his hips at just the right angle so that he arced his mustard colored projectiles over the edges of his bassinet striking me twice, a suitcase, the wall, and a snow white stuffed bear that will, I’m quite certain, never be the same again.
“Fine,” I said. “You win.”
He smiled at my concession (although my wife says those aren’t real smiles) and allowed me to get the last diaper on him without incident. I handed him off to my wife who had thoroughly enjoyed watching the war games her two men were engaged in, and headed off to the store. Having made trips like this in the past, I knew exactly where the diapers were and was at the checkout counter in seconds.
Ready? Here comes the embarrassing part. When I handed my credit card to the lovely checkout lady she reached for it, stopped short, withdrew her hand, glanced at me, the box of diapers I was purchasing, back at my card and then back at my face. With each turn of her head her expression descended further and further into horror and disgust.
I was about to ask what the problem was, when she took another step back and pointed at my wrist and muttered, “Is that …”
Yes. You guessed it. I had cleaned my hands after changing the diapers, of course, but in my haste to get to the store I neglected to check my arms. I was splattered with poop from my wrist to the middle of my forearm and hadn’t noticed.
I promised the woman I’d only ever use the self checkout from now on!
PS – For those of you new or expecting parents wondering what books will best prepare you for parenthood … I’m currently reading one I think might help: