Shit happens

Why after my daughter comes down with her first urinary tract infection can we no longer smell her dirty diapers? Granted, I've known my shit didn't stink for years now, but when you've got a baby in diapers, especially a girl, you kinda appreciate it when you can smell the need for a diaper change. Sadly however in her time of need, I am constantly being surprised by a seemingly wet diaper that upon further inspection calls for the institutional sized box of wipes.

The funny thing is that until recently ever since we brought Meryl home from the hospital, her gas alone would cause paint to peel off the walls. My wife and I argue over who she takes after when it comes to this, but the fact is for months now we've been peeking into many a noxious diaper only to find it empty save a green cloud of escaping poisonous gas. Now that she's come down with a urinary tract indection, something we've identified she contracted from her craptacular diapers, our olfactory senses fail us. Or more accurately her shit don't stink.

A brief apology is in order for those who came to cocktailswithkevin.com today with the hopes of finding the meaning of life or the secret to world peace. Yes, I realize that my usual antics have over the past few posts been usurped by anecdotes on fatherhood. I promise to get back to my regularly scheduled rants soon, but someone is taking up quite a bit of my life lately and I feel the need to share. As my urologist informed me once he learned my wife had given birth, having kids really does change you. This he said after charging me $40 to finger my ass and tell me to lose weight, but that's another story.

Before having a kid, when I would express hesitancy over changing a dirty diaper, women would say You'll see, it's different when it's your own kid. You know what? These women were lying. I no more want to change my daughter's crap-filled diaper than I would Ronald McDonald's or Rush Limbaugh's. Well, considering what Ronald McDonald must eat, his diaper is probably worse. After all, I hear oxycontin is constipating. Anyway, I digress.

Garbage in our house has three degrees of separation. Closest to us are the trash cans in the kitchen, Meryl's room and the bathrooms. For large packaging and overly fragrant food waste, there's the trash bag in our garage. And outside the garage is our trash can which we reserve mainly for trash day but also visit when there's something so abhorrent that we can't stomach it being anywhere inside our home. Usually this is reserved for week-old cat litter and the severed body parts of fat-bottomed girls who won't put the lotion in the basket.

Crap-filled diapers are some of the few things that actually bypass the first two degrees of garbage and go straight outside into the big trash can. Come to think of it, if I suspected our trash man was within five blocks of our house when the crap filling occurred, I would probably run down the street holding the diaper as far away from my nose as I could with the hopes of chucking the thing directly in the back of his truck. I wouldn't even care if it was our garbage man really. Any garbage truck would do so long as he was driving away from my home.

Making matters worse is the antibiotic she's on. Not only does amoxicillin cause her to experience regularity on an irregularly frequent basis, it also makes her dumps the consistency of mashed potatoes. Instant. Mashed. Potatoes. Regardless of what goes in whether it be mango, peas, prunes or what have you, it turns into a greenish brown yuck that sometimes isn't even content to confine itself to her diaper. Today was one of those instances.

I picked her up and felt something spongy on her back so I started messing with it and squishing it. I thought maybe it was a sock or something stuck in her p.j.'s. Almost instantly I started to see a stain soak through her pyjamas where my fingers were. Then it dawned on me. I was fondling her moist dung through her clothes. Gross! I cannot possibly convey to you how disgusting these crap diapers are. Maybe I'm a poop phobe.

I know there are mothers out there who take pleasure in talking about their kids' bowel movements. I do not understand this, but you can click here and find the blog of one of my favorites. My wife is another one who likes getting the poop report. I've started emailing it to her or leaving it on her voice mail at work if I can't get in touch with her directly. It's basically just the shart chart for the day. Again gross! I can't believe I'm even typing this.

I have read Everyone Poops written by . . . ummm . . . hold on, let me ask my librarian wife . . . some Japanese person she says. Anyway, I know this is a normal function and all, but somehow discussing it after having had to come into close contact with it is bothersome.

Gone are the days when dads never had to change diapers. I understand that, and as I'm the one usually at home with her during the day it's pretty much a responsibility I can't shuck unless I want to try knocking on my neighbor's door and see if they'll oblige.

Wait a minute.

Maybe that's not a bad idea. The neighbors don't speak English, but I'm sure with the right body language and Meryl providing the visuals I could get the message across. I'll let you know how that goes.