I wish I were kidding. You’d think I could change a diaper without injuring myself. After all, I have four kids in diapers. Nope. Not a typo. FOUR kids in diapers. Any prayers you can send my way are much appreciated. Or better yet. Just send diapers.
OK, I’m not being entirely truthful. I have three kids in diapers full time and one who wears them on his head during the day but on the proper end at night. Like I said, prayers or diapers. Your choice. Both are desperately needed.
So, back to my finger spraining event. (It actually hurts to type. I guess if I cared I’d be embarrassed, but losing your self-consciousness is another byproduct of motherhood. But that’s a topic for another day.)
Let me set the scene: I am changing the diaper of Seamus, who is 2 . (No, he isn’t potty trained. Do you think I have TIME for that?! I’m thinking I’ve got “middle child osmosis” on my side. He should be good to go — ha-ha — by eighth grade for sure!)
So, there I am, on the seventh package of wipes in my quest to thoroughly remove the “definitely not firm, not even close, even soupy doesn’t describe it” type of poo-poo.
I engage my most authoritative voice. “Seamus — bum bum: UP! Keep it UP!”
While Seamus touches his toes to his nose in an effort to keep his posterior off the floor, I frantically use another seven packages of wipes to clean my hands before grabbing the new diaper. (Yes, our household is producing methane emissions at the rate of the world’s cattle herds).
Suddenly, the tummy muscles of my little angel (insert sarcastic font) magically give way causing his thighs to slam down on my middle finger.
“OWWWWWWWWWW!” I howl, rocking backwards on my knees and tipping over on my side only to narrowly miss the pile of poopy wipes. I look at Seamus. He sheepishly smiles through spread legs. Niiiiiice.
Worse yet, my middle finger (affectionately known as “Tall Man” in our house) is out of commission. Darn it. And I have a trip to Massachusetts planned this coming weekend.
Ahhhh, Massachusetts! The land where it is completely acceptable to, and in fact expected that you will, flip off your neighbor en route to the post office.
As I lay on the floor, I take stock of my options.
I could ground him in his crib for a month, I think.
Ineffective. He actually LIKES his crib.
I could enroll him in a pilates classes to strengthen his core, I decide.
Backfire. A toned toddler would just run faster, climb higher and throw harder.
I know! I’ll make him wipe his own bum-bum from now on! Hold up. That means potty training.
Sorry, Mr. Gore. I’d LOVE to help the environment with one less kid in diapers. However, while reading “Everyone Poops” for the 50th time, I’m likely to fall asleep (and onto the tiled floor) thus causing me to be officially placed on the Mommy “DL.”
As it is, I’m currently changing approximately 15 diapers a day with a sprained finger. And, believe me, it’s highly inconvenient.
Jen Rohde is currently being raised by her four kids under the age of 5. Her family resides in North Yarmouth but tears can often be heard in neighboring Cumberland.