How to Change a Diaper

I used to work with this funny teacher in Japan. I always thought he was kind of a prick, though, because he would go into class and say some pretty ribald shit, but at such a tempo that he knew his students wouldn’t be able to pick up on it. Example:

“So, Shinichi, I slammed my cockandballs in the bathroom door last night eighteen times in a row out of pure boredom! Did you ever try this?”

“Ahhh, yes, yes!”

And so on.

Well, now it seems I am also this kind of prick. As much as Bub picks up, his brain simply doesn’t work fast enough. His vocabulary is, what we called in Japan, a “weak point.” So I threatened to rip his legs off and eat them. What parent hasn’t, right? Wait, let me back up.

Bub is going through this phase where he needs to be coaxed into a diaper change; like diaper changes are a side item he can add for 99 cents, but he’s not sure he wants the extra calories.

So I’m tired, it’s early. I’ve got him in his room, out of the crib, on the floor, door closed. He runs over to the mirror, the one place out of my snatch-and-grab radius.

“I SEE you,” he says. Yep, that’s how mirrors usually work, Bub. Science did not evolve while you slept. This is all part of his little I’m-not-sure-if-I-want-to-splurge-on-a-fresh-Pamper game, and I’m just not feeling it this particular morning. I mean, his diaper is sagging like Clint Eastwood’s balls, he smells like port-a-john. I know what’s waiting in there for me, and I forgot to put water on for my coffee. The worst part is, he’s standing there, slobbering on the mirror, thinking how CUTE this all is.

After repeated pleadings, I finally just move to overwhelm him with my brawn. Subdue and incapacitate the defecation suspect; it’s in Baby 411. He’s screaming about parental brutality and legal representation while I throw up a little in my mouth, seeing the loaf he’s been so coy about revealing. And he wriggles all over the place, squeezing his cheeks, sticking his foot in it, trying to roll over, etc. I finally finish chiseling the buttcrust away, grab a new diaper, and that’s when he really goes apeshit.

“No diaper!” screams the neo-nudist. “Nakey, nakeeeeeey!”

“Bub, you need a diaper,” I say, still calm. “You peed on the floor TWICE last night, remember?”

“Ooooooonce, twice!” he says, beaming. I know I should be proud, but it just feels like blatant mockery sometimes. I move ahead in operation diaper change.

He immediately starts kicking really just too close to my special parts, banging on the floor, squeezing his thighs together and turning so I can’t fasten the thing, so I lost it.

“Bub, I love you, but I WILL RIP YOUR FUCKING LEGS RIGHT OFF YOUR TORSO, CONFIT THEM IN A DUTCH OVEN OVERNIGHT AND SERVE THEM OVER A NICE DILL RICE AT YOUR BIRTHDAY PARTY IF YOU DON’T HOLD STILL!”

I’m exaggerating of course. I said FORKING. Anyway, it worked. He was trying to process all those words like a Commodore 64 and formulate a response; meanwhile, his diaper and pants and socks were magically just on. Finally, he looks up at me and says:

“Oven, HOT!” 

Yes, Bub, the oven is hot. You want some juice? Let’s get some juice. And some coffee.