Wednesday, November 26, 2008
My son just beat the crap out of me. In fact, he's been roughing me up for months now. A fist to the chin, a bop in the nose, a scratch on the cheek, a kick to the chest...
Never mind that he's 11 months old. When I'm changing his diaper, he IS Randy "Macho Man" Savage, I'm Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat, and we're facing off at Wrestlemania III.
Just now, I went for the diaper change, which only happens a couple times a day because of the physical transformation it requires me to undergo. And, so, we re-enact what has become a familiar scene in our house.
I place him on his back and he immediately starts with the squirm tactic. Like a seasoned boxer, I go into distraction mode, giving him a lotion bottle, a wipey, the whole wipey container, a ball (bounce it off his nose a few times -- he seems to be entranced), a towel, a remote control...aaaah, the buttons did it.
I have to move quick. I get the pants off, unsnap the onesie t-shirt. I slip the new diaper under the old one on him (there is a method to my madness -- need that new diaper ready to go before I even take the old one off). The wipey is already in-hand and ready for action. I am sweating. I know I don't have much time. He knows what's happening and immediately chucks the remote across the room (yes, I said ACROSS the room). My mouth drops.
Forget the distractions. I just need to press on. I'm not sure how I do it, but I get the 56-pound diaper off him. He tries to sit up. I push him back down. He yells. I yell. He tries to sit up again. I'm so close. I press him back down and hold him there with my left forearm. I get the old diaper off him. I am out of breath. The new one is right there and ready to go (see, method to my madness). I unfasten the velcro on the new diaper and all I can hear are his ear-piercing screams. I'm convinced the neighbors can hear him too and have called child services.
I make one crucial mistake in the melee, though...I forget to pull up the front flap of his diaper. All of the sudden, the room goes silent and it is as if we are moving in slow motion. I reach to pull up the front of his new diaper, but it's too late.
My ears are ringing as I scream, "NOOOOOOOOO!" I am hit. I am down.
I am a fighter, though. I will not be swayed from my mission. I ignore the pain and humiliation (and spot on my chest). I am more determined than ever. I pull the diaper up, strap on the velcro, and emerge victorious.
The room is silent again. As I lift him off the changing table, I whisper to myself: "As God is my witness, my kid WILL have a clean ass."
Posted by Rosana V. at 10:42 AM