First things first: I’m a Monday morning stay-at-home Dad, which, I assure you, is a “thing.” The bulk of this story happened over a few months ago. Either it has taken me this long to get over it or I used my powers of procrastination to their fullest extent. Regardless, the story is here now.
Let’s start by painting a figurative picture. It’s a typical Monday morning. The sun is effortlessly sliding through the crack in the living room curtains, ever-so-slightly illuminating the toys that are scattered about the floor. It’s a subtle nod to the next four hours of life; no work and all play. Q is awake, which means he’s been ready to grab anything within reach (toy or not) and make sure it gets my undivided attention. If I’m being honest, it’s just as fun for me as it is for him. When else can you steer a laundry basket spaceship around the house? (Maybe Friday night. Maybe.) For the next two hours, life is grand. The following hour felt a little more like answering a question incorrectly on Nickelodeon’s Double Dare.
Q and I had finally crash landed back on planet Earth. It was time for a nap, and, like any other Monday, we went to grab our pre-nap bottle from the fridge. With the container of boob juice in hand, we went back to the couch. In the milisecond that it took Q to tip the bottle upward, breast milk began pouring all over the both of us. Knowing that breast milk is the equivilant of liquid gold, I quickly snatched the bottle out of Q’s hand to save as much of it as I could. If you know anything about babies (and even if you don’t), you know this was a horrible life decision. Little Man lost his shit. As I shuffled our milk-covered selves into the kitchen, I realized that the bottle I had grabbed had a nipple on it, but did not have a vital plastic piece that regulates the flow of milk into said nipple. This was a problem I had never encountered before, as K always had the bottles ready to go in the fridge on Mondays.
Fixing this problem required two hands. When I set Q down, you would have thought I had just pushed a goat off a cliff right in front of him. Traumatizing is not descriptive enough. He was frantic and I was frantically trying to find the piece of the bottle to put it back together, or another bottle so I could transfer the remaining milk. Lucky for me, all the bottles and bottle parts were dirty…which meant I was now covered in breast milk, frantically hand-washing a bottle, while my kid was screaming at me from the floor because I had metaphorically killed his favorite goat. I scrubbed as fast as my man hands could scrub, got the bottle back together, and we were back in action in what felt like 10 minutes, but was closer to 30 seconds.
But, the milk crisis didn’t end there. Due to the large amount of the substance that was now soaking into both of our clothes, Q did not have enough to eat. Shit storm number three. Unfortunately, with no breasts close by, all of the milk I had available to me was frozen and would take a minimum of two minutes to get to liquid form. So, for two inconsolable minutes, Q and I waited for the warm water to make all our troubles go away.
Little did I know, all our troubles would not be going away. It was now time to go down for a nap, but before we could go to sleep we needed an entire outfit overhaul…because of the milk. Midway through the costume change it became very apparent that Q’s diaper needed some attention as well. There was a heaping pile of human turd in there. We’re a 60-40 cloth diapering household and, luckily for me, this was part of the 40%. Yay, me. For those of you who don’t know anything about cloth diapering, that means you have to get said poop from diaper to toilet, rather than just folding the steamer up in the disposable and throwing it away.
Getting Q cleaned up wasn’t the issue, but by now he had had enough of this crappy day and just wanted to be held so he could just go to sleep, forgetting the morning ever happened. Unfortunately, when there’s a giant Turd Ferguson two feet away from you when you’re trying to rock a baby to sleep, it has to be dealt with first. So, I put Q in his crib…by himself. Shit was lost yet again. When I took the diaper and headed to the bathroom, we escalated to the type of screaming that happens when you realize you ate sushi from a gas station. Needless to say, I was trying to hurry with the whole diaper situation. But, this wasn’t the type of shit that would just plop into the toilet. This was a peanut butter poop that needed to be scraped off the diaper.
Now, I’ve been told that there are different ways to go about doing that. I made my usual choice, using toilet paper like a civilized person. I immediately regretted that decision and regretted the fact that we buy two-ply toilet paper. I was trying to wipe, the TP was ripping, shit was getting all over my hand, the kid was crying…our pets heads were falling off! (Not literally…Dumb and Dumber reference.) It was at this point that I made a calculated decision that set my species back tens-of-thousands of years, yet would have made my monkey brethren proud…I decided that I already had shit all over my hand, might as well put that opposable thumb to use, scrape the rest off, and get this shit over with…literally. And I did. It wasn’t my finest moment, but poop, your baby crying, and adrenaline will make you do crazy things.
To conclude: yes I washed my hands; yes, I got Q to sleep; yes, I can cross that off my bucket list; no, K had no sympathy for me. All in all, not a bad Monday morning.