DadLife, the Holy - or not so holy - Crap edition

My problem is my dog follows us around everywhere we go. So, my son had a covert blowout that I didn't see until I picked him up. When I did, the poo went everywhere, including the dog's head and back, as he was standing right there. Then, it's a race to clean it up before the dog licks it up, which requires me to put the boy down, who then tries to mimic what the dog is doing. Then it's a bath for the boy while trying to keep the dog relatively close until I can throw him in the tub next.

It's a fucking nightmare.

 

Our 3 year old has been out of diapers for about 6 months. The size of his poops is astounding to me, sometimes it looks like a kielbasa and I wonder how that little body could hold that thing. It cracks me up that he insists on taking off his shirt to drop a deuce.

The one skill I have not been able to reach him is how to pee standing up, still insists on sitting.

 

I was stuck in a car once with my brother-in-law who listens to Rush Limbaugh. It's probably the only time I've ever listened to him.
He has a woman caller who tells him that she is afraid her daughter won't have a happy life because she is not attractive. Limbaugh says, "So because you think your daughter in unattractive, you're afraid she won't be able to have a happy life? Well, take her to a bowling alley, she'll fit right in."
I admit that a laughed my ass off hearing that and it's a story I re-tell whenever anybody brings up Rush Limbaugh.
When my kid was an infant, we had a Monday night ritual of meeting friends at a bowling alley to eat dinner. The woman was in a league through her office and there was a really good coffee shop at the alley. We showed up and are standing around waiting before heading for the coffee shop. My arm is crooked and my kid is basically sitting on my forearm.
And her diaper explodes.
I have shit all over my arm, in my watchband, on my shirt. DAMMIT.
So I hand her off to my wife, who has the diaper bag. I'm heading for the bathroom and I say, "Should we go home? I have baby shit on my shirt." And my wife says, "We're in a bowling alley, you'll fit right in."

 

From an old episode of Cheers:

Norm makes his entrance.

Norm: "Evening everybody."

NORM!

Woody: "How's the world treating you, Mr. Peterson?"

Norm: "Like the way a baby treats a new diaper."

 

I've been writing a journal since the day I found out we were having a child. My son is now nearly 2 1/2.
Here is an entry from when he was about 9 months old.

Monday, July 1
Today will forever been remembered as: PoopApalooza!
You usually eat around 3 or 3:30pm, and I decided to take you for a quick walk.
We went around the short way and got home and I decided to change your diaper before you ate.
I notice a small amount of poop on your right leg, a little had gotten on your jeans, so I take those off and wipe you down before taking off your onesie.
I pull your onesie off and take off your diaper and it's a mess. Then I notice you have it on your back...and hands...AND IN YOUR HAIR!!!!?!?
I notice after that the poop on your back had got on your onesie and when I pulled it over your head it got all over you.
So by then, you had poop everywhere: the wall, the changing mat, and on me!
Instead of trying to wipe you down, I just decided to give you a bath.
Then I realized: I can't put you down, you are covered in poop!!!
So with you in one arm, I had to strip down and put you in the tub instead of just using your little bathtub. That was quite a task!!
I got you cleaned up and we played in the tub...then I realized: How am I going to get up with a slippery baby in a wet bathtub?!?!?
Somehow, we made it. I got you a towel, wrapped you up and put you in your crib while I cleaned up the bathroom, your changing table and I got to dry off.
Did I mention you usually ate around this time?
Yeah, you were NOT a happy camper!
Between being doused with water, tossed around without a towel and put in your crib naked, you were pretty mad.
I still had to dress you and get you a bottle made. By the time I got you in your high-chair, you were shaking you were so upset. Tears streaming and hands shaking, you finally settled down to a big bottle.
After that, we chilled on the couch for a few minutes and watched a Craig Ferguson episode...then mom came home and I told her the story. She couldn't stop laughing.

So, there is the story of PoopApalooza!

 

My wife has been doing this too, and I REALLY regret not having my own. I will for the second.

 

My contribution:

There wasn't much I feared going into this fatherhood thing. One exception, though, was taking Case out to restaurants.

I envisioned horrifying scenes of screaming, crying and people staring at me for reasons other than the usual.

But a week into his existence, we went to lunch. Aside from getting out of the car and making it halfway to the front door before remembering there was a child in the back seat, the outing went fine. Perfect actually. And in the ensuing weeks, Case contiinued to sleep through public meals. Most of the time, it was like he wasn't there.

Until Friday.

Now there was no screaming, crying or questionable behavior (at least on Case's part), but there was an incident. And, surprisingly, I wasn't horrified at all. In fact, I enjoyed being the guy everyone was staring at (at least one person I'm sure did not share this bit of twisted pride).

Anyway, our meal at Carrabba's was going swimmingly. Good food, good conversation, TV was within sight. Case was sleeping late into the meal when he began to stir. I told Ashly and my mom I'd take Magoo for a stroll to try and calm him down and I'd meet them outside; it's the type of sacrifice a parent makes when someone else is paying the bill.

So Magoo and I are out cruising around the parking lot (on foot), and he's enjoying the new view -- wide-eyed and quiet. Then, the silence breaks. Aggressively. The boy's expression did not change, but it was the type of noise even the newest of the new parents recognizes. After a couple more minutes of walking and a couple more aggressive rumblings out of Case, I decided it was time to go back inside and see if the rest of the party was wrapping things up.

They were were still leisurely chatting away waiting for the check, so I mentioned to Ashly that Case needed to be changed. She wondered if the restaurant had a changing station, but I suggested it might be easier to change him in the back seat of the car (Calm down, we have a changing pad). She agreed. I then offered to do the changing (Really, I did), but Ashly said she would take care of it and I could wait for the bill with my mom (the least I could do since she was paying).

A few minutes later, I figured I'd be alll supportive and check on the fesitivities in the parking lot. Approaching the back of the car, I turned and the back seat was in clear view. The first thing I noticed was a puddle on the changing pad.

"Uh, what's that?"
"Oh my God, it was horrible!"
"What happened?"
"All over the back seat!"
(Grimace, slight smile)
"I figured it wasn't good when I noticed the puddle."
"When I took his diaper off, he started shitting again, and when he was done, he started peeing!"
(Smile no longer slight)
"Oh, no, I'm sorry, baby."
(Laughing, both of us)
"OK, let me get in there and clean that up while you put Magoo back in the car seat."

I wiped the changing pad down, free of feces, and cleaned a moderate amount of pee off the back seat, still smiling. It could have been much worse. Thank God for changing pads. Of course, now we were standing in the Carrabba's parking lot with plenty of people staring us, and I was holding a diaper I swear weighed roughly the same as Case. It was 5 pounds if it was an ounce. I then made what turned out to be the type of suggestion that could only be made by a new parent lacking sleep.

"What are we going to do with this diaper?"
"Ooh, I don't know."
"How about I take it into the bathroom in the restaurant and throw it away; I'll hide it so no one sees."
"WHAT? YOU CAN'T TAKE A DIRTY DIAPER INTO A RESTAURANT!"
"Oh, yeah, good point."

Ultimately, I got an extra to-go bag and stashed the evidence in the trunk. We then fled the scene of the crime and returned home, where dirty diapers are handled more efficiently, but rarely with as much entertaining drama.

 

I can't believe I forgot this story:

One time, I was staying at this hotel, and went to use the pool. I'm swimming around, there's a few other guests hanging out. Then this couple comes in, with a baby.

They take off all the baby's clothes, and start to enter the pool, with the baby naked. Lifeguard goes over to them and tells them they can't do that. They were a foreign couple, and at first, they were claiming they didn't understand what the lifeguard was saying. Then, from my vantage point, the lifeguard points at naked baby and tells them that the baby can't go in naked.

So the couple gets out of the pool, gestures angrily to the lifeguard, and goes to put a diaper on the baby. They try to go back in, and the lifeguard objects again, and tells them that the baby needs a swimsuit, or something else over the diaper. Couple gets angry again and starts yelling. Finally, lifeguard relents.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, well, you can guess what happened.

So much for swimming.

 

I have a better one that I forgot about initially:

Case,

To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.

Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.

I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")

But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.

So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.

And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.

In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.

A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.

I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.

So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.

I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.

OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."

I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.

We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.

After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."

The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for wipes. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.

Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).

At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.

A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.

Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.

Love,
Dad

 

Chernobyl of bowel movements

Well played, sir. LOL

 

There was a time my son was sick with a stomach bug when he was about 6 months old.

I went to change his completely uneventful diaper and he started shitting as soon as I opened it. I guess I panicked, and instead of just putting the diaper back over it for a minute, I began trying to wipe it up as it was coming out.

Since he was sick, it just kept coming and coming, and before I knew it, half a box of shit-covered wipes was strewn all over the entire living room. The shit in my hands had spread to my shirt and the entire diaper drawer. I cleaned up as best I could.

When my wife got home, I naturally made her change the next diaper, and that's when I realized that, of all places, I neglected to clean the shit off the drawer handle, and she didn't notice until she tried to open it and got a surprise all over her hand.

 

One of my prouder moments as a father was the night my son, who has Down syndrome, got a bad case of food poisoning at a little Italian restaurant in the Bronx. This was about 20 years ago when he was about four. Before I could get him into the tiny little bathroom (1 stall, 1 urinal, 1 sink) he had had a diarrhea explosion. Underwear and pants unsalvageable. I spent the next half hour cramped into the stall cleaning him up with wet paper towels as people walked in and out to use the restroom, likely wondering what the fuck was going on in the stall. Finally cleaned up, I wrapped my sports coat around him and carried him out to the car.