It is said that a shot of adrenaline when faced with danger can give a man the strength to lift incredible amounts of weight. One becomes more alert, able to make quick decisions to save his own life. We are, in essence, mere mammals, natural born predators. When faced with life-threatening stress, it is as if our minds shut down and our bodies take over, doing what must to survive.
Enter a helpless infant. The very fragility of a newborn human makes his or her parents stalwart protectors. Their weakness and vulnerability are matched by a heightened sense of caring affection in their parents. Any and everything they do is observed with a keen parental eye, lest the infant's action puts itself in harm's way. Indeed, a parent is a baby's literal life-support.
A newborn is unable to perform many things with conscious effort. Most things they do are due to innate reflexes. Some things they do are because they simply have no control over their bodies. Like a feeble, elderly couple sitting on a bench outside a retirement community, infant humans are incontinent.
Can't hold their poo.
That's right. They poop and pee at the exact moment the urge hits them without regard to their clothing, others' clothing, carpet, walls, electronics, books, fine art, open eyes, or open mouths. I'm told this incontinence lasts for a while, which is why a man named Donald Pampers, under the tutelage of Raymond Huggie, invented a disposable diaper to capture and contain any bodily fluid that exits a human's midsection. The changing of the diaper has been a cornerstone in the tradition of parenthood for generations, and it begins the very day your child is born.Which takes me back to the amazing feats a man can achieve when placed under extreme pressure. A man does not train to change a diaper. Unless a boy grows up with a sibling quite younger than he, he most likely will not go near a soiled human in his lifetime. Until that first day of being a father. Such was my case. I was awakened in the night from a restless slumber by the frustrated cries of my newborn boy. Groggily, and with great haste (and because my wife told me to), I began to change his diaper. I was not afraid. I was barely conscious to begin with. But, because it had to be done and because he had neither the strength, balance, agility, intelligence, nor wit to change it himself, I changed it for him. From where did this skill come? I cannot say. But at that moment, with left and right hand fumbling with legs and arms and baby wipes, I became a Navy SEAL of Daddyhood. Uncovering the tush of my child gave me a start as I stood face to face with the monster Meconium: thick and black with the consistency of molasses or tar. It stuck to my human child like warm glue, as if the devil himself spread it upon his fragile skin like honey mustard on a slice of bread. I attacked it at once, ridding him of his demon stool as a priest exorcises a possessed leper. And at once, the battle was over. I stood, holding my boy, unsure of how he had become dressed and subdued; it had been a blur. I had passed the test.
Fathers, beware the monster Meconium. Although it is beastly in its inhuman fabrication, it soon passes. And by all means necessary, point the little guy down when you put his fresh diaper on, unless you want him to pee all over himself. Seriously. I can't speak for little girls, but a guy will pee all over the place if he can.
