Every single time I change Max’s nappy I find myself fantasising about a day when he can take care of ‘business’ himself. It’s not just the rancid odour that devours your nostrils, the unavoidable splodge of pooh that seeks out the crevice of your finger nails, the strained expression that alerts you to a “code brown”, the noisy protest that accompanies each and every nappy change, the relentlessness with which nappies are filled or the contorting baby doing its best to avoid your clutches – it’s all of these things wrapped up into a stinky little package that makes nappy changing so, excuse my French, f@#*ing excruciating!
I am nostalgic for the inoffensive little raisin pellets that Max used to reward us with in the glory days of nappy changes. I ponder on why at child care he is blissfully happy for a complete stranger to change his nappy, even smiling I’ve been told, but when I do it it’s as if I’m performing a crude surgical operation, traitorous swine! And his ability to wriggle out of every hold, grapple and pin, eluding the offending nappy with consummate ease (combined with an ample physique and a love of lycra), will surely set him up for a promising wrestling career one day, but at this point in time its not helpful.
For those of you who are uninitiated in the joys of pooh pouches or perhaps enough time has past that you look back with nappy tinted glasses, you will be reading this thinking to yourself “suck it up big guy, how bad can it be?” Things have got so bad that I took the radical step of fast tracking Max’s potty training recently which resulted in me peeing on my son (don’t tell mum). In another moment of weakness I took pity on the poor little darling and let him enjoy an au natural culinary experience, nude food if you will, he repaid my trust by depositing the meal I had only just served up on the seat of his high chair, never again.
Most parents get on with this inevitable baby by-product but I feel well within my rights to kick up a stink (pun intended).