So there I was. The three year old was on the ground and she was smiling and giggling because I was asking her how this was supposed to go. I was kneeling and wondering what I was supposed to do. I knew what was waiting for me. I’d seen it. It had seen me. It had judged me and deemed me lacking and had threatened my manhood. It thought it was better’n me. I knew it was there. It knew I knew it was there. I knew it knew that I knew it was there. This moment was on like Donkey Kong.
All drama aside, when I opened that kids diaper and saw that what I’d seen a few minuets early when I checked her diaper wasn’t an exaggeration I gagged. I gagged, stood up and ran into the bathroom. Not to puke but to shove some tissue up my nose. Then I went back and looked at it again.
I had no idea what the fudge I was doing.
So I just sat there and tried not to make direct eye contact with it.
Besides what I’d seen on TV and in movies I really hadn’t seen anyone change a diaper before. I mean I’d seen a friend do it, but that was a disposable diaper and the kid hadn’t shat a brown baby in his pants. So this was different and I was clueless.
So I looked at it and I gagged again.
Then I started talking to myself.
I was doing this for my sister. She was my very first best friend. She’s my Wingman of Mayhem. She feels my pain. I can make eye contact with her and have an entire conversation with just one look. I would take a bullet for my sister and volunteer myself for the Hunger Games to protect her and all sorts of other cliches…so I should be able to change a diaper for her right? Right.
I gagged a few more times wiping up the huge mess that had sort of…squished everywhere while we were playing and I was denying that the stink I smelled was coming from the kid and I learned my lesson. As soon as it stinks, diapers must be changed me thinks. When I was done wiping I kind of looked at this now bare and clean bottomed child and asked her if she knew how to put her own diaper on. She said no and I knew she was lying because she was laughing at me.
The poop was still judging me even though it was wrapped up in a diaper and smeared on wipes.
When I picked up the diaper I’d set aside I kind of just looked at it. Inspected it for a moment and got confused about how it worked. After a few minuets of fumbling around, I eventually got the kid secure in her diaper and I felt almost triumphant. Just to prove that I was better than it, I took a picture of it. Because I had won that battle. Me – 1, Dirty Diaper – 0.
On our way back down stairs I decided to be celibate for a little while. As cool as winning is, it was still traumatizing and gross.