The Diaper Diary

Curt (of The Happy Husband) was the featured poster at Dad Bloggers today. His post was about fathers that refuse to change diapers, which is just crazy.

I don’t understand a father that wouldn’t be a part of childhood like that, but what I wanted to rant about is the sad fact that often we can’t change a diaper. That’s not to say we are stupid or lazy, although I’m sure our wives could make arguments for either, but that we don’t always have the proper setting for it.

Tricia and I have an understanding, if we are out in public she takes the baby to the bathroom. I take them from toilet age thru the rest of their life.

We do this because many place do not provide changing stations in men’s rooms. Places like Best Buy, that must get a decent amount of dads shopping with young ones, do not have one. I had to change my son on the dirty floor, which I covered in toiletseat protectors. Red Robin doesn’t have one. Yet they have a kid’s menu. Don’t they know what happens to a kid’s butt if they eat?

It frustrates me that I contacted those two companies when Thing 1 was still an infant and three years later I’m now taking Thing 2 into still hostile environments. At least I know that nearby companies, like Barnes and Noble provide a station for dad should the need arise.

I would be happy if they met our needs, but I’ll go one step farther and give kudos to Albertson’s, that not only provides a changing station, but a fold down seat on the wall that you can strap a second child into. That’s consideration.

Now back to Curt. I don’t usually do this, but I’m printing my comment to his post on this site. Why? Because it’s funny.

I remember when my first son was about a month old and had created a Jackson Pollock inspired masterpiece in his diaper. My wife was lying in bed and as I was up she asked me to change him (which, for the record, I have no problem doing).

I had been battling some allergies that week, and as I placed my boy on the changing table I suddenly developed a bloody nose. I realized this because I started adding red to the art spread open beneath me.

I was reaching for a wipe to plug my nose and yelling the play-by-play commentary to my wife when I had a funny taste in my mouth. Pee.

I did my best Barry Sanders and side-stepped the stream. My running play-by-play turned to color commentary. Namely off-color. I continued changing the boy and yelling for my wife to help me. She couldn’t. She was laughing too hard.

Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse I heard a meow and looked down right at the instant that the cat threw-up. On my foot.

Now I ask you, what kind of father doesn’t want to add a story like that to his repertoire?

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