Dad’s First Diaper
For the readers out there that haven’t experienced having children yet, let this be a cautionary tale, and perhaps a glimpse into your future. For the Dads and Moms that have already been through it, I apologize if this entry brings back any PTSD – Post Traumatic Shitty Diaper.
My entire life I have had an unusual sensitivity to smells. A quick waft of anything remotely rancid and I will respond with the quickest trigger dry-heave you have ever witnessed. Walking down the streets of Bourbon Street in New Orleans during St. Patty’s day was, without a doubt, the single largest combination of putrid smells I have experienced in my life. The unique blend of stagnant rainwater, restaurant waste, construction exhaust, alcohol, vomit, human urine, and horse excrement (from cops on horses) was a potent encounter. An onlooker may have thought I needed the Heimlich performed on me with the amount of gagging that commenced. (Side note: I LOVE New Orleans, just avoid Bourbon Street during festivals).
Are you still reading? Even after that last paragraph? Impressive, let’s continue with the point. The point is my nose has made me attempt to avoid situations that could be conducive to retching for as long as I can remember. If someone got sick in my vicinity growing up, you can rest assured I’d have some sympathy sickness coming up if I did not leave the room immediately. Avoidance was my only reprieve. I was an incredibly helpful uncle to my nieces and nephews, unless that baby filled up their diaper, then I was handing it off like I was trying to run out the clock. But as the due date got closer for the birth of my first daughter, I could feel the anxiety creeping in…the showdown that was to come.
It was a rainy afternoon in early August in Roanoke, Virginia. I had just watched my wife go through 26 hours of back-labored childbirth. Superhero status. My daughter was peacefully resting in the rollaway bassinet in the corner of the room. I had just helped Meredith out of bed and into the restroom for an icepack change when I heard it. The grunts, the groans, the strains, the gurgle…that’s a full diaper, I already know it. Damn.
Maybe she’ll be out in a minute? I should give it a minute…right? No, Andrew! You’ve just watched your wife have a bowling ball snatched from her loins! Muster up whatever courage you’ve got, you can do this!
I go in. Eyes squinting, shirt pulled over my mouth and nose, real Wild West cowboy stuff. Undo the swaddle, unbutton the onesie, confirm the nasty business has been done. Check. Find the wipes and the clean diaper. Is that Meredith? Could have sworn I heard her. Maybe I should let her have this one. No, you coward! She’s got more iced packed down low than if she was the catch of the day!
Press on. I undo the Velcro from the diaper tabs and reveal the package. Oh God. OH GOD WHY? The humanity! The color, the consistency, it’s as if someone changed the motor oil in this baby, how could it possibly be this dark? I wipe, then wipe again, then again. Get this muck to the trash, ASAP! As I move to dispose of the carnage, my shirt slips off my nose and mouth and I panic preparing for the rotten fumes preparing to overtake me… But, what’s this? It doesn’t smell. How? How can this sludge that might as well have been dredged off the bottom of a swamp not smell? Am I conscious? Did I pass out?
No, I’m still alive and breathing and this handful doesn’t stink. Is this divine intervention, or divine design? God had to know my apprehension and made it this way so that I could succeed in this endeavor. Just as Andy Dufresne escaped Shawshank, I went through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side.
My advice to prospective parents, if you’re anything like me and are sensitive to these encounters, change the first diaper. Fear is erased, you’ve conquered it, and for the last 3 years there’s only been one dry-heave inducing experience that I’ve had as a dad, and we can thank the stomach bug for that one.
