Marlene and I are the parents of three. Our youngest is now 20. But, when she was an infant, I should have bought stock in Pampers. Kerry needed to be "tended to" about ten times a day! Having been through it twice before, I didn't have too many issues with changing the wet diapers. But those dirty diapers. Oh my. OOOhhh my. The aroma was not Chanel #5.
I love my children dearly but, pressed into emergency service that afternoon because my wife was "out with the girls," the inevitable occurred. Did I really love my daughter THAT much? I was no match for a poopy diaper. I knew it. I admit it. Knowing that the kid needed a change, I looked at the clock and tried to calculate how much time would have to pass before I might be charged with child endangerment for allowing my daughter to wallow in her previous night's dinner.
A gentleman much stronger than I might say 15-20 minutes. I figured about 6-8 hours should do it. (Certainly my wife would have returned by then!) The kid didn't mind. She was just cooing and babbling away, content to converse with Raggedy Ann while imprisoned in her crib. But, alas, the aroma (a much nicer word than stench) wafted from her room into mine. (Where did Marlene keep that Lysol spray?) Hating to give up on Laura Petrie during a "Dick Van Dyke Show" rerun, I knew I had to conquer my fear and face the music. (Which, I believe was "Baa Baa Black Sheep" on this little crib music thing she had. Oh, how I hated that song. To this day, when I hear it, I get the dry heaves.)
Putting Kerry on the changing table, she laughed at me. She knew how she was tormenting me. I took a deep breath and pinched my nostrils shut. I didn't let it out. I knew that if I had to inhale again I might upchuck on my child. (I realize how ridiculous this all sounds, but I was powerless. I COULDN'T HELP IT!) I'm not proud of my squeamishness, you understand. It's just the way it was. Poop was victorious. I was a beaten man. Doo-doo 1, Da-da 0.
I didn't care. I couldn't breathe. The kid was giggling. I needed my wife. I needed Laura Petrie. I ripped open the two sticky fasteners on that stinking diaper (in the most literal sense of the phrase). I grabbed a moist wipe. Then I saw it. Oh no. No-o-o, no, no, no-no-no-no-no!! Why me? Why ME? (I knew why. It was because I shoplifted a Fifth Avenue Candy Bar from Waise's Delicatessen when I was about 7 years old and I was finally being punished. But, I'm sorry, this punishment was far worse than my crime. I could have stolen a CAR and this punishment was worse.) It was a L-O-O-S-E one!
That apple juice always made ’em loose. I hated my wife. I hated my wife's friends for taking my wife out of the house. I hated Motts. And Gerbers too, since I knew they had something to do with it. "It" was shmushed all over the place. With a clothes pin on my nose, it still would have stunk. (Where did Marlene keep that old scuba diving mask with the breathing tube? I needed to know--for future reference.)
I'm an adult. I can think fast. I immediately recognized that this was no one-wipe job. Still holding my breath, I had to make a decision. Fast. So I did. I decided to flee.
What option did I have? I yelled at Kerry "Don't move!" fearful that she'd roll off of the changing table as I raced into the other room for a breath of fresh air. Move? Heck, she was enjoying all of this. I exhaled. Out with the bad, in with the good. It was like breathing diamonds. Filling my lungs to capacity, I ventured back into that pastel purgatory.
I flung the muddy diaper into the trash. (Where did Marlene keep those extra-thick Playtex Gloves?) Holding each wet wipe gingerly between my thumb and index finger, while holding my breath too, it was swipe--toss into trash can, swipe--toss into trash can. OK, maybe her bottom wasn’t pristine, but it was good enough. A very, very heavy dose of baby powder, and I was out of the room again to fill my lungs with more diamond droplets of pristine oxygen.
The worst was over.
Hey, I'd been through it before with Michael and Randy. I've got amnesia on the precise number of dirty diaper changes with Kerry's older sibs but, surely, it was at least a couple of times with each kid! If you add all 3 kids together, maybe even a dozen! (I know. Your fleeting thought at this moment is "Whaddaya want, a medal?" But show me a father who enjoys changing loose diapers and I'll show you the dictionary definition of a masochist.) By the way, I had no problem with those #1 changes. It was just the aroma of the "dirty" ones. Heck, I was SuperDad with those moist ones. I'd take that medal.
Look, I know it's part of the parent-baby deal. And, that day, I had completed my fatherly duty. Now as long as Kerry had completed her doody, I'd make it through the afternoon. I maneuvered a lovely white diaper onto her caboose. Then I warned this 11-month old Little Stinker, in my most loving (yet stern) tones (so she'd know I meant it):
"Kerry, don't you ever, EVER do that again. Unless Mommy is home."
