Road Journal: 2012 Holiday Road Trip, Seattle to Saskatoon
1
Tag Archives: Bodily Functions
Potty Training: Day One
4 Subtle But Important Differences in Parenting
The 4 Levels of Diaper Change
Level One: The Wet Diaper
Degree of Life Interruption:
Minimal.
What Gets Ruined:
A diaper, possibly some dinner reservations.
Eventual Result:
Remember to add diapers to grocery list. Remind spouse to empty diaper pail.
Level Two: The Dirty Diaper
Degree of Life Interruption:
Medium.
What Gets Ruined:
A diaper, some pants, romance.
Eventual Result:
A bath for the kids.
Level Three: The Pooplosion
Degree of Life Interruption:
High.
What Gets Ruined:
A diaper, pants, shirt, socks, all plans for the following 2 hours, satisfaction with life choices.
Eventual Result:
A bath for the kids, a hot shower with lots of off-market horse soap for the parents, a stiff drink, the lingering possibility of never eating or feeling compassion again.
Level Four: The Poopocalypse
Degree of Life Interruption:
Life?? YOU CALL THIS A LIFE?
What Gets Ruined:
A diaper, pants, shirt, socks, sheets, wallpaper, toys, and the desire to carry on this pitiable, masochistic existence.
Eventual Result:
Vasectomy.
Poop in the tub
That’s right, poop in the tub. It happens. More often than you might have hoped, by the way.
See, this is one of those things that just doesn’t appear in the “So, You’ve Decided to Stop Taking Your Birth Control Pills” brochure.
If you don’t have kids, right now you’re thinking:
“Oh. My. God. That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. I would have to call someone to come into my house and deal with that or get a hazmat suit. No, I would have to have the tub replaced. No, actually, I’m pretty sure I’d just have to move – find a new place to live – because there’s no effing way I’d ever be having a bath in that tub again.”
But then there are those of you who have kids, who are more likely thinking:
“Meh. At least it wasn’t on the couch.”
Academically Talented
I know my kids are still really young and it’s probably too early for this kind of thing, but I’m just going to go ahead and enrol them in some gifted courses right now:
Advanced Water-Spilling
Interrupting for the Interruptionally-Gifted
Intermediate Sonic Annoyance Techniques
Creative Uses of the word “No”
Advanced Pooplosions
Senior Seminar in Exaggerated Flatulence
Food-Smearing for the Elite
Cat Torture 446
It just makes sense to give them all of the academic advantages we possibly can – after all, our son is farting at a fifth-grade level.
The five stages of a diaper change standoff
Stage One: Denial
“Nah, it’s not dirty – I think that was just gas.”
“Are you sure? He’s sort of squirming around and grabbing at his pants . . .”
“It’s just gas. It HAS TO BE. I’ve changed 3 dirty diapers already this morning.”
Stage Two: Anger
“Gosh! How many times could one baby possibly poop in ONE SINGLE DAY?”
“I mean, seriously! You’re killing me here, child. How long until you’re potty-trained, anyway? You’re already eighteen months old. You know, if you were a lobster you would already have grown up and gone to a good school and found a good job and settled down and had your own lobster babies and wouldn’t even be my problem anymore.”
Stage Three: Bargaining
“You change him? Please? PLEASE!? I’ll do it all day tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a THOUSAND DOLLARS.”
“I’ll watch a Gossip Girl marathon with you tonight while discussing the characters during the commercial breaks. While eating a cake that I will bake for you. From scratch. Off of new china that I will buy for you. Not from the dollar store. Not even on clearance!”
Stage Four: Depression
“Lord, why have I done this to myself? Why have I been forsaken with this Plague of Poo?”
“When will my poopy penance be paid?”
“When will I be released from this poopy purgatory?”
Stage Five: Acceptance
“Sigh. All right. It’s no big deal, right? It’s just another dirty diaper. Just one amongst the one hundred and fifty million others.”
“Don’t worry honey, I’ll get this one, you just relax.”
“Oh okay, thanks! Wait . . . what do you mean by that?”
“Nothing my love, only that you should continue watching football while I change this dirty diaper. It’s no problem – really! Can I grab you another beer while I’m up?”
“I’m going to pay for this, aren’t I?”
“Only when you least expect it.”
Babies are terrifying. And they TOTALLY always mess with me.
Before I had kids, it absolutely made my stomach turn when parents offered my their babies to hold. It was nothing but awkward for me . . . and yet you really cannot say no.
When that happened, my thought process was always something along the lines of . . .
“How the hell do I hold this thing?”
“Isn’t there some neck support stuff I’m supposed to be aware of here?”
“Am I hurting it?”
“If I look at it wrong will it cry?”
“What do I do if it cries?”
“Should I rock it or bounce it or will that also hurt it? How does that work with the neck support stuff?”
“What if it pees on me?”
“Aren’t they like dogs and bees and can smell my fear?”
“If it smells my fear, won’t it cry and pee on me?”
“Well it hasn’t cried or peed on me so far, but what do they do, anyway? This is a little on the boring side.”
“How long do I have to hold this sack of meat?”
“Uh oh, its mother is watching me – quick, make faces and noises like you like her kid.”
“Hmm . . . that was embarrassing.”
“Maybe faces and noises but with less enthusiasm. More manly-like.”
“Wow, that’s didn’t work AT ALL. Now the baby’s upset and I’ve somehow managed to look even less manly. Now what?”
“Quick – find a grandmother or a single woman in her 30s. They’ll be all over this baby like Ke$ha on an unprotected shot of whisky.”
And now? Now that I have kids and another parent hands me their baby to hold?
Well, the only thing that’s changed is that I know how to hold it.
(Sort of.)
I’m not proofreading this post – it grosses me out.
Our son is at that magical, charming, endearing age where he is not yet old enough to be potty trained, but is plenty old enough to prefer not to hang out with a diaper full of his own filth.
His latest “hinting that he wants to be changed” technique?
Sticking his hand in his diaper, pulling it out and holding it up as if to say “see? I need to be changed, like FOR REAL!”
(Yes, that was the non-graphic version. You’re welcome.)
Now, I’m sure some parents will tell you “oh, it’s not disgusting, it’s just a part of being a parent – I really don’t mind, because he’s just such a little miracle and I’m just oh so very blessed that scraping poop off of 4 square feet of baby parts is really not a chore, it’s just a different kind of blessing.”
Those people are known as alcoholics.
In reality, this sort of thing is disgusting on a level that non-parents cannot possibly understand.
Oh no, not in that condescending “OMG you’re not a parent you COULDN’T POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND” sort of way. No no, I know that non-parents could not understand this because if they did . . . if explosive diarrhea was really covered in the “So You Want to Procreate” brochure . . . nobody would ever do it.
No children would be created.
This holiday season’s craze wouldn’t be the Furbee or Tickle-Me Elmo, it would be Mass Vasectomies.
You really want to fuel the abstinence movement? Forget fear of Hell . . . bring the fear of poo-smearing toddler into the mix and that whole unwanted teen pregnancy thing? Like, totally solved.