Diapers and Grit
I came. I smelled. I reconsidered reproduction.
I changed my first diaper on Monday, August 27, 2007. It smelled like fermented mothballs with a touch of failed dreams. I don't know where those subtle notes came from, but they were good reminders to use birth control.
Melina and I had just started getting serious, so this was our first major test. Her brother, Paul, was in Paris participating in a 1200-kilometer bicycle race, so we were babysitting his kids for an entire week.
We were told that little Nick knew how to go number two in his potty chair, but the convenience of taking a dump in a diaper whenever and wherever is the obvious choice.
The smug smile on his face looked like it was mocking the anguish in mine. It can’t be true, coming from a two-year old, but it felt like a premeditated power play to balance the scales, like maybe I should think twice about my eat-your-broccoli-before-dessert warnings.
Nicholas (in his mind): “How do you like this time-out?”
Me: “I'm going to barf.”
Nicholas: “Mwahahahahaaaaaa!”
I couldn’t help but sneak a smile while writhing in revulsion.
Darby (in my mind): On second thought, I’d like to have one or two of these little shits someday. Sophie and Nicholas are too stinkin’ cute. That, however, is not going to stop me from destroying them in the next pillow fight. I'll be ready this time.
Two years and two fraternal things later …
