I’ve heard countless times that things get easier as your baby gets older. This is mostly true. Except for one thing:
Since Baby O began to roll and squirm, diaper changes have become the bane of my existence. A task that used to take less than a minute has turned into a lengthy chore.
Here’s a true account of changing O’s diaper. Sometimes it’s easier than this; sometimes it’s harder.
While nursing Owen, I notice that his diaper is 3 times its dry size and he weighs a few pounds more than usual. (Or I notice a horrific smell or feel something blow out of his butt. Or, worse yet, I put my hand on a massive leak of poop up his back.)
Time for a diaper change. Yippee.
I gather my arsenal of weapons as I prepare to go into diaper battle: lots of wet wipes, a clean diaper, toys and various other items to entertain Baby O on the changing table.
Immediately after placing Owen on the changing pad, he flips over. I flip him back. He flips again. I turn him back over. This goes on several times. In between the flipping, I manage to unsnap his onesie and expose his dirty diaper. I quickly pull off his diaper as he rolls over yet again.
Owen is as happy as a clam. He loves being diaperless.
Not that I don’t enjoy my son being happy, but all this happiness is making Owen VERY active. Everything within his reach is suddenly a toy. He grabs for the lamp. He grabs for the mirror hanging above his changing table.
He grabs his male parts and giggles.
Luckily I had already wiped them clean. Sometimes I’m not so lucky. Sometimes he grabs a poop-filled wet wipe and smashes it into his face before I can react.
I give Owen a bottle of pills to play with. Shaking the bottle momentarily occupies him.
Owen calms down while playing with the pill bottle. I let my guard down slightly.
A squirt of pee hits my chest. With lightning speed, I smack a wet wipe over his wee-wee. Thankfully, it’s just a little spurt; most of the urine is on my shirt. No need to change his outfit or the changing pad cover. I relax again.
Sh*t. I mean shoot.
I somehow succeed in snatching the wipe out of his hands. But Owen has become impossible to control. His body is flailing everywhere, like a fish out of water.
I decide to move this comedy of errors to the floor, where I can be sure he won’t fall. At this point, his onesie is half on and he’s still diaperless. But his ass is clean.
As soon as Owen touches the floor, he rolls away. I pin him down with my legs, wrestling him into an immobile position. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough arms and legs to hold down all of Owen’s limbs so his hands are free. While I put Owen’s fresh diaper on, he starts playing with my face.
The hand that was only moments before grabbing his junk is now in my mouth. Nice. Then he pulls my hair and wickedly laughs.
My dream of having a sweet, shy mama’s boy who loves DNA and dinosaurs and enjoys quiet activities like reading dies a little.
Abruptly Owen realizes that this is a trap, that we aren’t just having undressed playtime and that I’m putting him back in a diaper.
He’s pissed. He shoves and arches his back, trying to escape the new diaper that’s already stuck on him. He lays face down and wails.
Fortunately, Owen is bipolar. I let out a fake sneeze and the little munchkin giggles hysterically, completely forgetting he’s supposed to be inconsolable. Nothing amuses Owen like a good sneeze. Sucker.
I quickly grab Owen’s thrashing feet and shove them into the legs of his onesie. Still pinning him to the floor, I start snapping up the legs. Almost done.
Owen attacks, jamming his fingers into my eye. I’m temporarily immobilized, rendered blind for a moment.
I soldier on. Undeterred, I once again put Owen’s legs back into his onesie bottom.
WTF. I mean fudge.
Seriously, Walter??? This is like the worst timing ever.
Before I can stop him, Owen is all over Walter, ripping out his fur by the handful. I mutter curse words at Walter. Poor Favorite Son (yes, that’s my nickname for my dog). The victim of misdirected frustration.
I’m about to give up. I mean he doesn’t really need to have his outfit all the way on and snapped up, right?
I succeed in getting most of the buttons snapped. Mission Diaper Change Accomplished.
I feel like I just participated in a wrestling match. My hair has come undone from its ponytail. My shirt has piss on it. My eye is still watering. I’m sweating like a pig. The room looks like a disaster zone, with toys, wet wipes, pill bottles, wads of Walter fur, and a dirty diaper strewn across the floor.
I look at the clock. Forty minutes have passed since this diaper changing debacle began.
I pick Owen up from the floor, ready to get on with the rest of our lives. Owen smiles devilishly at me. And lets out a giant wet fart. A very, very wet fart.
Holy crap (no pun intended).
And so it begins again.