We all know that Emeline has plenty of Zen-like qualities, and that she's a calm and gentle spirit.
I am not. I'm catching up now.
I believe, after just 13-days, that this is why we have children: to help us attain Zen. Last night -- or rather early this morning, at about 3am -- Max had his wet diaper changed by Emeline after a feed. About 15-minutes later, as I was soothing him, burping, coaxing, patting, rocking, cooing and singing to him in the dark, he filled his second diaper with something satisfyingly solid. It was like holding a plastic bag while someone dropped apples into it. It's a not entirely pleasant sensation, but I was pleased for him. There aren't many things he's mastered yet, so it's nice to see him excel at something. And, to my credit, I laughed quickly at the prospect of a second diaper change. I changed Max's diaper. This is no small event: every time we change his diaper, he screams. Loudly. Like we're torturing him. He screams great, windy, steadily escalating, bloodcurdling, earsplitting wails of molten grief as we take his clothes off. Afterward, I calm him. And then 10-minutes later, patting his back, whispering in his ear, another hot load -- like catching a well-pitched fastball in a perfectly positioned catcher's mitt. He turns red. He strains. He grunts with the effort. His whole body clenches, like a little pink comma.
Back into the bedroom for a third fresh diaper in 30-minutes, I imagine gaping landfills quickly filling with Max's diapers. In a hundred years, Max's dirty diapers will still be around. I won't. I ask him not to do it again. For a human who weighs less than 8-pounds he has quite a carbon footprint.
But we have no control. We are living under a dictatorship now. It's a cult of personality in our house. It's like North Korea. We have our own little Kim Jong-Il, right here under our roof. He's a despot. It's a banana republic. Max staged a coup. It was a bloody takeover of our lives. He's sleeping right now, quietly sighing to himself. But when he's awake he is unforgiving. He is arbitrary. And his control is total, unyielding.
Fortunately, he's relentlessly and unremittingly lovely. And slowly, one heavy, warm diaper at a time, our little despot is helping me attain Zen.
I am not. I'm catching up now.
I believe, after just 13-days, that this is why we have children: to help us attain Zen. Last night -- or rather early this morning, at about 3am -- Max had his wet diaper changed by Emeline after a feed. About 15-minutes later, as I was soothing him, burping, coaxing, patting, rocking, cooing and singing to him in the dark, he filled his second diaper with something satisfyingly solid. It was like holding a plastic bag while someone dropped apples into it. It's a not entirely pleasant sensation, but I was pleased for him. There aren't many things he's mastered yet, so it's nice to see him excel at something. And, to my credit, I laughed quickly at the prospect of a second diaper change. I changed Max's diaper. This is no small event: every time we change his diaper, he screams. Loudly. Like we're torturing him. He screams great, windy, steadily escalating, bloodcurdling, earsplitting wails of molten grief as we take his clothes off. Afterward, I calm him. And then 10-minutes later, patting his back, whispering in his ear, another hot load -- like catching a well-pitched fastball in a perfectly positioned catcher's mitt. He turns red. He strains. He grunts with the effort. His whole body clenches, like a little pink comma.
Back into the bedroom for a third fresh diaper in 30-minutes, I imagine gaping landfills quickly filling with Max's diapers. In a hundred years, Max's dirty diapers will still be around. I won't. I ask him not to do it again. For a human who weighs less than 8-pounds he has quite a carbon footprint.
But we have no control. We are living under a dictatorship now. It's a cult of personality in our house. It's like North Korea. We have our own little Kim Jong-Il, right here under our roof. He's a despot. It's a banana republic. Max staged a coup. It was a bloody takeover of our lives. He's sleeping right now, quietly sighing to himself. But when he's awake he is unforgiving. He is arbitrary. And his control is total, unyielding.
Fortunately, he's relentlessly and unremittingly lovely. And slowly, one heavy, warm diaper at a time, our little despot is helping me attain Zen.
1 comment:
Seriously, I don't want you to go back to work after your leave because I think we will get far less in the hilarious-yet-touching blog category!
Good seeing you all today. And yesterday!
Aunt Moonie
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