Call me bizarre, but I like changing L’s diaper. True, the contents don’t stink yet, so there’s no gag reflex to deal with. But I’ve a feeling that even when the Poopsmith does start incorporating fragrance into her artistic endeavors, I won’t mind it. I’ve come to realize that changing L’s diaper is the most loving, intimate thing I can do for her now.
I can’t feed her — that’s all K’s responsibility at this point — but I can clean up the mess.
Changing a diaper helps a father realize, I think, how completely dependent an infant is on on him and his, even for what in later life will be one of the most private of acts. Yes, that’s obvious, but hearing it and experiencing it are not the same.
For me, as I suppose for most men with the birth of their first child, changing a diaper was an entirely new activity, something requiring a bit of instruction, some patience, some practice, and a sense of humor when things go wrong.
Patience is key, for L poops in shifts. Hence, the first time I changed her, an almost scripted adventure: I get the new diaper on her only to hear the tell tale noises that say, “Time for a change.” I get that diaper on and it happens again. Lesson learned: give the little girl time to get it all out.
Patience is not enough, though. Practice combines with patience to create that mystery known as the quick diaper change, for it’s possible — in a rush, mind you — to put the diaper on wrong side out. This is not very effective, but fortunately the mistake makes itself readily manifest when you try to close up the diaper.
The need for a sense of humor is the most obvious — fountains of pee, squirts of poop, leaking diapers, heels planted firmly in dirty diapers all have their role in a diaper change.
Yet, changing a diaper is not for everyone, especially grandparents. When I asked my mother if she wanted to change L this weekend, she simply said, “No.” The great advantage of being a grandparent, I suppose: all the joy without the mess.