Just Another 6 a.m.

I wish I could remember what I was dreaming about right before I woke up.  It had to be bizarre, because I recall saying "Oh my God, that's crazy!"  out loud.  Then I heard a little voice.

"Baby stink..."

I opened my eyes.  Then the smell hit me.  If you've never had the joy of changing a diaper, then you've been deprived of the purest definition of the word 'funk'.  But this was no ordinary funk.  Earlier in the wee morning hours (I imagine around 4 a.m.), I was monitoring my two year old son, fearing that he might have a fever.  But his temperature returned to normal, and soon we were both again asleep.

Fast forward about 2 hours, and I see his little eyes peering over at me.  He repeats the phrase that greeted me from my strange, but less than memorable dream.

"Baby stink..."

I rose slowly, perhaps still affected by sleep, but am quickly awakened by the intensity of the smell my son is describing.  If I didn't know very well, I would have been tempted to ask what in the world he had been eating.  I prepare all of the necessities for changing a dirty diaper:  clean diaper, wipes, baby powder, and  a towel to lay the baby on.  In addition, I grab some air freshener and a plastic bag to immediately discard the stinky diaper.  So, now I'm ready, about to perform a task that I now feel comfortable saying that I've done enough times to consider myself skilled at it.  There are moments when one too many wipes are used, or times when slow reaction leads to a small mess.  But nothing major.

A split second before I reached to pull his pajama bottoms off, I see it.  It's on his stomach and from the size of the bulging diaper, there's a ton of it.  In my mind, echoes sound off of the fitting response.  Oh shit!!!

So suddenly, we must take this show on the road.  I scoop of the baby with ginger hands, doing my best to keep a mess from occurring.  We make it to the tub without incident.  Yes, that's right, I've decided to change this diaper in the bathtub.  I can laugh about it now as I write this, but at the time, my mood resembled nothing funny.  I got his shirt off without seeing any signs that the mess had spread, and went about the delicate process of removing soiled pants.  Remember that I am a male, and therefore delicate is applied in all loose senses of the world.  I yanked them.

*Insert man scream here*

Never have I imagined that much shit being in such close proximity in my lifetime.  (I searched for a nicer way to put that, but failed and so there you have it.)  I mean, there was shit upon layer of shit.  Up close and personal shit.  I've seen grandparents and parents alike cooing nonsensically over "the cute little mess that baby made".  Well guess what, this shit didn't provoke cooing.  Without grossing you out with too much detail, I'll just say that this is why I'll never eat creamed spinach.

So I'm wiping fervently and tossing used wipes into the toilet, never forgetting the fact that the diaper isn't even opened yet.  I brace myself, never more nervous about pulling apart adhesive strips than at that moment.  I yank and release, letting the monstrosity of a dirty diaper fall into the tub.

Let's just say that if World War III involves shit, I have seen a preview.  It looked like a war had been fought inside that thing, and from the horrid smell, nothing had survived.  At that point, my son Solace started laughing, no doubt amused by the contorted faces I was making.  I gripped that diaper like a member of the CDC carrying a vial of the Hauntavirus, and quickly shuffled it into the waiting plastic bag.  For the next ten minutes, I was vigorously wiping, washing, and drying off the baby, all while trying to ignore the smell from the plastic bag next to me.  Finally, I became satisfied that all was well.

"Okay, the baby's clean."  I said.
"Thank you."

I remember he said it with such sincerity, this look of appreciation coupled with a smile that instantly made the whole ordeal worthwhile.  I was smiling.  My son was smiling.  Order had returned to the chaotic morning.

So I took him back onto the bed, sat him down with a couple of his favorite toys, and told him to play while I cleaned up in the bathroom.  I had managed to get the soiled pants going in a nice hot soak, when I heard his little voice again.

"Uh-oh"

I turned to go check on him, when in he walks into the room.

This is a rhetorical question, only because an answer really doesn't matter at all, but how do you manage to vomit in such a manner that it's covering half your face, the front of your clothes, the bottom of your pants, AND your hair?!?  I mean, come on, your hair?!?  He looked like he'd been in a food fight that involved mashed potatoes.  The pitiful way he lifted his little arms up to me made getting mad impossible, because it reminded me that while I was cleaning up the mess, it was his little body actually going through it.  I was no longer irritated when I saw the piles of yuckiness that now inhabited two sections of my bed and the floor.  I simply went about the task at hand.

Sooooo....wipe, wipe, wipe....wash, wash, wash....dry, dry, dry....and once again the baby was clean.  Two clothes changes after waking up, and he finally seemed to be feeling good for the first time all morning.  He watched cartoons until he fell back asleep.  All the dirty stuff is being washed, all the smells have started to subside, and most of the unpleasantness of the entire ordeal has drifted into a humorous memory.

It's now simply all a tale of just another 6 a.m.  And somehow, it feels fitting to sigh and smile.  Ahhhhh.  Good morning, world.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet