I’ve decided to share my latest book (The All-Important, Well-Fed, Giant White Man) with my followers here, free of charge, one chapter at a time. So… Where were we on this read-along… Oh, yes…
Chapter 28: The Adventures That Come With Changing
I’ve spent too much of this book talking about sordid things already, and way too much of this book talking about moments that involved number twos.
That being said, I bring you one more glorious chapter surrounding bodily functions. Get through this with me, and I promise I’ll try not to be overly gross throughout the rest of these stories.
Besides, this chapter is about baby yuck, which is cute. I guess.
But before I get into that, let me tell you that once as a grown man, I soiled my pants at a Golden Corral.
Meh. Let’s all be honest with each other for a moment. When you’re a grown ass man, and you defecate in your bloomers, the only term that will do for it is “shit your pants.” You didn’t have an accident. You didn’t have a slip-up. You didn’t poop yourself. You straight-up shit your pants, and it’s something you need to man-up to with the proper terminology, no matter if you’ve got a foul mouth or not.
So, let me rephrase. Once, as a grown man, I shit myself at a Golden Corral. I’m not going to get into details (you’re welcome). Just know that it was the absolute, 100% most horrible and humiliating experience of my life. It was one of those “aaaaaalllmost make it” situations which ended in a giant mess and yours truly covered in his own, well, you get the idea.
I don’t tell you this for any reason than that it’s integral to some of the lessons I learned later on as a brand new dad.
And most of those lessons came while changing my kid’s diapers.
I have nine siblings, six of which are sisters. I am second oldest of the brood, so as a young teenager I had to change a lot of diapers. My youngest three sisters were all in diapers at the same time, and that meant everyone had to pitch in if anyone wanted to keep their sanity for long.
Back then, I found changing diapers to be a horrible and suffocating task. I loathed it and counted down the days until my sisters could control their own faculties.
Then I had a baby boy of my own and I realized something. Changing baby girl diapers is nothing in comparison to changing those of baby boys.
As we prepared to bring Noah home from the hospital, I stood in the new nursery we had decorated for him and surveyed the room. Over in the corner was a Diaper Genie. More than a hundred newborn diapers were neatly stacked in rows on the shelf next to it. I’d be changing a lot of diapers, but it wouldn’t be too bad. I wouldn’t loathe it the way I had when I was a teenager. Not when it was my own kid.
But nothing could have prepared me for what was coming.
I certainly never experienced changing diapers full of the thick black tar that filled his nappies the first few days. The pungent stench from it still troubles me. It smelled the way I’d imagine it would if I stuck my head neck-deep into the mostly eaten remains of a zebra that the lions had finished off three days prior. I’ve been assured this is completely normal for newborns.
I also never had to figure out what the hell to do with a baby erection while changing any of my sisters.
And if you’re looking for answers, I don’t have them. I still have no idea what to do when you go to change your baby boy and he’s got a little hard-on. There’s nothing right about that. Babies shouldn’t get those. I don’t care how natural and normal it is. I’m telling you, they shouldn’t get those.
My wife always used to tell me, “it’s just like morning wood, get over it.”
“You get over it!” I’d yell as I squinted one eye and examined the poop that was coating the dang thing. “It ain’t right, I tell you. It ain’t right!”
I’d half-heartedly swish a baby wipe around it, and my heart would always sink when it did nothing to clean it. I’d then whip his erection with the baby wipe over and over, willing the poop to come off. That never worked either. Usually I’d stand and wait for the longest time, willing the boner to go away. That also never worked. I have decided that baby erections last just short of forever.
Eventually, I’d get a fresh baby wipe, bite my bottom lip, close my eyes, and give it a good scrub until it was clean.
I never felt like a dirtier man. It ain’t right, I tell you. It ain’t right. In my perfect universe, stiffies won’t even be possible until a man is 30 or so.
But stiffies weren’t the only thing for which I was ill-prepared. I had heard many stories of little boys peeing while their diapers were being changed, but until you experience it first hand, you’ll never understand what I now do.
Let’s start with the speed at which they can pee. Count to one. See how fast you did that? Well, that wasn’t as fast as a baby boy can pee when you open up his diaper, so let’s do another exercise. Snap your fingers. Nope. Still not fast enough. Let’s try blinking your eyes. Yeah… still not fast enough. I know because once Noah got me in the eye before I could even close them to protect myself.
And while the speed is frightening, the incredible aim is straight-up terrifying. I’m telling you, my son had complete control over his tallywacker, and it didn’t matter which way I jumped to dodge his urine, he would aim that thing straight at me. I could jump left or right. He’d nail me. Forward or back. He’d get me. I could be standing four feet away dropping his cargo into the diaper bin, and somehow he’d hit me there, too. That kid never missed…