Don't Fear the Poo

There have been occasional debates about whether or not real men change diapers. I don’t know if there is a correct answer for that debate – no absolute axiom dictating the relationship between real men and really loaded diapers. I know men are (and should be) disgusted at the concept of manhandling a poo-filled Pamper. But I believe that most men are capable of setting aside their distaste for BM long enough to provide relief (and freshness) to their non-potty trained offspring. When dairy air begins to waft from the derriere of their bumbling baby, I’d assume that most men do not do what my father did: strap their child (and their putrid britches) into a car seat and drive across town to a friend's house to have the friend change the diaper. (ps, thanks Dad!)

For now I am working with the hypothesis that real men do change diapers. I am a real man and I change diapers. Now, my reasoning may be some sort of logical fallacy – perhaps a false attribution – but for now it is all I have. I am a real man who changes diapers. And I know I’m not alone.

When my brother and I were little, my parents made a deal: Mom handled the dirty diapers, and Dad handled the vomit. Not a bad deal. My wife and I also struck a deal when Christian was born but Bekah did not want sole responsibility for 100% of the diapers in our household... and I have a weak stomach for things that were once in a stomach. So we made a slightly altered agreement: he or she who smells it first changes it. That adjudication didn’t last and soon turned ugly. Before long, Bekah would ask me if our kid was poopy. “I don’t know, I don’t smell anything,” I’d reply. Then she’d shove baby booty in my face and say “SMELL IT!” Not fair. (But on a positive note, I got really good at holding my breath.)

We’re now working with a surrogate protocol. I change diapers when ever it is convenient for me to do the duty. The problem with this arrangement is that my definition of “convenient” is radically divergent from Bekah’s. I consider it conducive for me to be the changer of diapers if I am in the same room. Bekah thinks it more befitting for me to handle the soggy bottoms if I am within a five mile radius. I hope you see the same disparity that I have suffered.

Alas, I frequently have a soiled tush in front of me that is in need of changing. And, our tenure as foster parents has awarded us with a greater opportunity to experience the woe of excrement. (For six months this past spring/summer we had four be-diapered butts in our house. Graciously, we’re now down to two.)

I cope. In fact, in order to contend with this great effluent challenge I’ve dubbed the diapers after great horror movies. I’m not sure why I do this. It may have something to do with human nature's compulsion to name things. It might be my deranged sense of humor. Whatever the reason, diapers of my changing are often designated a title worthy of Hollywood’s Halloween horrors. (Oooh, alliteration!)

Here are some of the monikers I’ve given to my kids’ passings.

Something Wicked this Way Comes
It Came From Outer Space
The Omen
Night of the Living Dead
Ghost Ship
Children of the Corn
Nosferatu
Army of Darkness
Salem’s Lot

Phantoms

Gremlins

The Sound of Music

OK, so that last one isn’t technically a horror movie. But if you ever walk through my front door and hear me singing “these are a few of my favorite things” you’ll know why.