In the grand scheme of things, I have very little to complain about in the way of parenthood. We’ve never had to take Jonah to the ER, he’s generally healthy, and he probably sleeps more than most. That will not, however, stop me from detailing to you my utter revulsion at today’s high chair diaper blowout.
For you non-parents, when I say “blowout” I mean specifically that the diaper’s payload has exceeded recommended tolerances and/or the diaper’s integrity has in some other manner been compromised so as to allow the heretofore contained baby-generated excrement goo to spread black plague-like on to the surrounding area killing all in its path with both bacterial and aromatic attacks.
But perhaps I understate.
In today’s nightmare, Jonah had just sat down for lunch in the high chair. I was busy preparing grub when I noticed he wasn’t as fixated as usual on his biter biscuit. Closer inspection revealed a nuclear meltdown in sector 7G, with semi-liquid coolant spilling all about the high chair seat. Jonah’s shorts, onesie, socks, and legs where pretty much covered in it.
There are these particular dreadful moments in life when you know you’re an adult, and you realize that it’s no longer possible to call in the calvalry in the form of your own parents to solve a situation that you’d really rather not face. This experience would qualify.
So I took it for the team, cleaned the boy up, changed everything, and solved all problems. Yeah, I’m a Dad-sized superhero. The funny thing is that while I’ve been ranting and railing about need to pour industrial disinfectant around the house just to make in habitable again, I’m almost certain that most moms reading this probably couldn’t figure out what the deal was. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they wouldn’t even have batted an eye, seeing dealing with something like this as just another ho-hum (albeit somewhat unpleasant) part of being a parent.
I’m not saying that makes moms better parents. I’m saying they need to get a better publicity machine.