When it comes to changing diapers, I’m not afraid to dive in and get er done. And while my wife may, indeed, hold the in-house record for the number of soiled diapers changed in a single day, it is I who holds the two-day record of 19.
That’s right. In the span of just two days, I changed 19 soiled diapers. And by soiled, I ain’t talking about a little pee. I’m talking about the other stuff. A lot of the other stuff.
Before you cast doubt upon my claim, please remember that I am the father of triplets, which means that back in the day, mass volume was my specialty. But these days, we only have one baby scrambling about. And that means that it’s no longer about the quantity, but rather the quality of these diaper changes. And when it comes to changing Luke’s diapers, I’m a true artiste. (My technique is breathtaking.)
But even Picasso needed a canvass. You know, something upon which to actually complete his work. And in order to wield my breathtaking diaper-changing technique, I require one, too, which is why I was so disappointed this past week when none was afforded me during a routine mid-dinner transaction.
We were on vacation, you see, eating at one of Hilton Head Island’s finest establishments, the Crazy Crab (the name of which I will forever confuse thanks to a sponge named Bob), just the seven of us enjoying a quiet, little dinner when, out of the blue, Caroline notified me of Luke’s diaper needs. Only said notification wasn’t actually a verbal one the news instead conveyed by my wife’s extended arms a la the “handoff” of our suddenly malodorous infant.
“Good luck in there, honey,” she said.
And, indeed, I would need it. Because there I was, holding a diaper bag in one hand and my infant son who’d had just experienced a DEFCON 1 blowout in the other, scanning the bathroom in vain for a diaper changing station. There wasn’t even any counter space just one tiny 30-inch (at the most) vanity, most of which already spoken for by the sink which sat therein. But even had there been ample counter space alongside the sink, would I have actually used it? I mean, c’mon, said counter housed a sink, for crying out loud. A place reserved for sanitary endeavors, not those involving, you know, unsanitary things.
This is no condemnation of the Crazy Crab bathroom, mind you, as we were actually eating in the bar area, so for all I know the bathroom in the main restaurant is a diaper-changing cathedral. Or maybe they have the situation covered in the ladies restroom (though, if so, c’mon, y’all dads change diapers, too).
Regardless, my point is less about the bathroom itself (because I love the Crazy Crab it’s a fun, family-friendly joint and I don’t want anyone to think I’m harshing on it) and more about this particular situation, itself. The situation which left me no choice but to execute a highly difficult and advanced maneuver. I’m speaking, of course, of the wall-sit diaper change.
So there I was, contorting my body as if sitting in an imaginary chair, my back against the wall, my lower legs at right angles with thighs that served as a changing table for my infant, my feet, calves and quads providing the torque needed to remain in such a position for the length of time such an endeavor requires.
I positioned the diaper bag on the floor and rid my son of the soiled one, carefully keeping his bottom off my thighs by executing the mandatory high-ankle hold which the wall-sit diaper change necessitates. Once the diaper was off and my baby was wiped to my satisfaction, I slid a clean diaper under his bottom, relinquished my high-ankle hold, then fastened the diaper in short order. Once all my changing materials were repacked in the diaper bag, I consulted the tiny vanity to wash my hands (while still holding our baby, obviously) before exiting the restroom (um, what rest?) and rejoining my family.
“How did it go?”
“All things considered? Not too bad, only my quads are a bit sore.”
“Never mind, honey.”
Have you ever executed the wall-sit diaper change or any other innovative position we should know about?