Melissa's Place

Love is a poop-filled diaper

This weekend, Mark and I visited Hilary and Chris and Jacob and Ella.

This morning, after we'd all worked together to prepare for the Christening reception and rotated taking turns entertaining Jake, we suddenly realized we had only a short time to all get dressed, get the kids dressed and to the church for the baptism itself. Hilary would be very busy dressing Ella and herself. Chris had to iron something. So I said, "I'll get Jake ready."

Just then, a waft of the most wretched, unmistakable scent of shat that I have ever laid nose on slammed through my congested nasal passageways and registered in my brain.
"Jake did you poop?"
But the answer was clear.
Hil was reluctant to let me re-diaper the lad. "It's so gross, Melissa" she warned.
"Oh, it's okay. Everyone else is busy."
"No, I'll get Chris to do it. Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis"
"I'm ironing" he called back.
Time was ticking and I knew it was fairly important we get out the door on time. So I took Jake, without another moment to protest, and we sped up the stairs to his room.

I put the change pad on the floor so he couldn't roll off. Well, so that if he did roll of, he wouldn't have far to fall. And he informed me that he likes to read a book while he gets his diaper changed. So I let him grab one. Then he laid down on the pad with his head towards me, so I had to pivot the pad around, toddler and all. I got down accessories like wet wipes and vaseline and Jake handed me a wash cloth, which is for patting dry the tush (I forgot this step, I'll admit it now). And there was exactly one diaper left, which was exactly what I needed.

Hil peeked her head in just as I was about to begin....just as I was noticing the tinge of the side of leg hole of the diaper which affirmed our grim suspicions...and I looked up and smiled bravely and told her I was just fine.

When the diaper came off though, I have never, ever smelled anything so terrible. Well, maybe I have, but I definitely didn't have to put my hands near anything so terrible. And to imagine such a sweet little boy had produced such a disaster was nearly unfathomable. I used far too many wet naps, but I explained to Jake it was just because I'm not a real parent yet and so I haven't perfected the art.

All the while I worked, and choked back my own lurching stomach contents, Jake gave me helpful instructions like, "Now diaper"

"Thanks bud, I would have forgotten that part."

Back at home this evening, Mark and I got into a conversation about parenting. We were following some prompts from a hand-out we'd received in prenatal class. You know, things like:
"Three things I liked about my childhood were..."
"Three things I will never do to my children are..."
"Things that will make me a good parent are...."

To this last one, I was having difficulty pinpointing exact traits. So Mark offered a few, including, "You'll make a good parent because you don't mind cleaning diapers."

I looked at him sternly, "Oh, I mind cleaning diapers," I corrected.

"But you did Jake's really poopy diaper this morning," he reminded me.

"Sometimes love means cleaning a poopy diaper....
even if it does make you want to....

... not clean it."