I feel quite bad.
All this time I have had complete faith in my mothering abilities. After all, it was the #1 goal of my life for as long as I can remember – even above being a teacher or starting my own business or getting a PH.D. (my other lofty goals in life). But after he was born, I was so scared of diapering my son that I regret to say that I never even knew what he looked like before his circumcision, which occured more than 30 hours after his birth. Thankfully we had some very patient nurses who seemed to enjoy changing him. (At least, that’s what I told myself).
And the moment I saw his little bloody gauze after the circumcision, I even vaguely considered the possibility of being able to purchase one gigantic, super absorbant diaper that would last for the first few weeks.
“Never, never will I have the courage to change him!” I thought sadly.
My very first diaper change, alone with my son, occured our last morning in the hospital. It was nothing more than a little peepee, but I felt terrifically proud of my accomplishment (to the point of even bragging to the lady who served my breakfast). Seriously, I was elated.
PARENTS ONE, BABY ZERO
Then, at 11 am that same morning, shortly before discharge, my husband and I together battled our first poopy.
And let me say, there could have not been two parents more proud than we were. We had stepped up to bat, and accomplished the impossible.
After cheering ourselves on, giving high fives, and some pats on the backs, we headed home with our little son in tow.
Flash forward to a few hours later.
OUR SON, THE POTTY MOUTH
Mommy (that’s me) was a wee bit tired, so we all piled into our king size bed to take a nap. And of course the (poopy) diaper had to be changed first.
Still pamper-fresh from our morning victory, we felt like old pro’s – especially since there was two of us big adults and only one little teeny tushy to conquer.
So there we were, basking in the glow of our earlier championship, laughing, joking, and talking about our future plans for Jack.
And in the midst of our happy chatter, I lifted up his legs, wiped his tushy, then brought them down again only to be completely horrified at the peepee now dripping out of my sons mouth, eyes, and nostrils.
I about cried.
FLYING THROUGH THE AIR WITH THE GREATEST OF EASE
You would think we’d learn our lesson after that, right?
Wrong.
Later that day, we had to change him again (as one would expect with a baby).
So there we were, both mommy and daddy, sitting on our king size bed, staring at our naked, wailing son, trying nervously to change his diaper fast enough to avoid another potty mouth episode.
Vaseline? Check.
A & D Ointment? Check.
New Diaper? Check.
Wipes? Check.
Unfasten…wipe…smear on vaseline…smear on ointment…place new diaper under tush…lower legs…reach for tabs…
BAM.
And there he goes again, gushing up 3 feet in the air, while mommy stares helplessly as daddy uses his hand as a cup in a vain attempt to corral the escaping peepee. Seriously, he could have given Old Faithful a lesson or two.
Oh well. At least it didn’t go in his mouth this time.
DOCTOR, DOCTOR, DO BEWARE
Ok. So after that time, we finally learned (from watching Kevin use his hand as a cup) that the best way to avoid a spouting fountain is to place something over the site of eruption. Our first choice was a baby rag, until we realized how fast we were flying through them – so we evolved into folding a wipe into a peepee-teepee shield. It worked wonders.
It worked wonders, that is, until the next day.
Wednesday, the day after we brought Jack home, he had to have his jaundice levels checked again, which warrented a scheduled trip to the pediatrician. And, of course, there was no better time to poopy, right?
So there we were, finishing up with the doctor, and changing the diaper before dressing Jack to go home. By this time, our vanity had re-emerged with the use of the peepee-teepee. We had conquered the fountain, and won.
Or so we thought.
Basking in a one-more-successful-poopy-diaper-change glow, I answered one more question from the doctor and removed the peepee-teepee from my son so I could hurridly snap the sides of his diaper into place.
And what does the little rascal do?
BAM.
There goes Old Faithful once more. This time he managed to spray not only the doctor’s table below him, but the wall behind him as well.
Sigh.
THE FINAL SCENE: MOMMY DIDN’T DO IT!
And for emphasis. One more little adventure.
As we were checking out that day from the doctor’s office, I was standing at the check-out window of the pediatrician’s waiting room. Of course, being the tired woman-after-childbirth that I am, I was leaning my aching upper body on the counter windowsill, waiting to schedule my next appointment.
And of course, nothing on my body happens to be as big as my own tushy, which was sticking out (probably a mile) past Kevin, who was standing beside me, with Jack tucked (and almost hidden) in the crook of his large arm.
And what does my precious, sweet angel do?
He (Jack, not Kevin!) lets out the biggest, rip-roaring toot I’d ever heard. It was enough to put the fear of God into anyone sitting in that tiny waiting room behind me.
And nothing was visible to those in that waiting room except for my own poor tush, sticking out.
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And with that, I think I’ll head on to bed. Plus, I think my son needs changing.
