I Write. You Read.

In the years before becoming a father, I had plenty of opportunities to change dirty diapers. I passed on every single one.

You could probably make the case that I was afraid to deal with dirty diapers. Maybe I was a little gun shy when it came to putting myself in the line of fire; most of these diaper-changing opportunities were on boys. I certainly didn’t want to get poop on me, especially someone else’s poop. Underneath it all I really just wanted to wait until I was changing my child’s diapers.

On some level, I imagined it would be an unpleasant task. Stinky. Messy. Fortunately, breast feeding has endowed Simon with the friendliest of poops, with barely any scent and a consistency that allows for easy clean-up. The consistency matters, because we’re not using disposable diapers.

Angie and I decided to use cloth diapers for several reasons, not all of which I can quantify. It was a combination of wanting to be environmentally conscious and frugal with our meager funds. We didn’t see the sense in spending all the money it would take just to throw away a bunch of poop. With cloth, we can dump the poop into the toilet, which is thankfully already set up to receive such materials. (With the addition of micro-fleece diaper liners — the secret of which Angie discovered online somewhere — the poop almost falls off on its own.) The diapers go into the washing machine, and then they’re ready for use again without throwing anything away.

Of course, we still use disposables sometimes. Especially when we leave the house, and know there’s a chance we’ll end up with a dirty diaper away from home. We don’t like the idea of carrying around a plastic bag full of smelly cloth diapers everywhere we go. And the logistics of trying to get Simon into a cloth diaper while writhing on the folding changing table in the mall make me nervous. Better to waste a little on a disposable than risk getting poop all over a public restroom or someone else’s house.

Overall, I’ve found that diaper-changing isn’t really unpleasant at all. In fact, since in these first few weeks I’m unable to feed Simon myself, my role as Head Diaper Changer just before his feedings is a good chance for father/son bonding. There’s even a routine we go through, which I’ve come to enjoy. Simon fusses, frets and finally cries loud enough to get his mom and dad out of bed. I go into the nursery, and gauge whether he’s really hungry or is just wanting some attention. Usually if he’s to the point of crying at full capacity, it’s dinner time. I first try to see if he’ll take his pacifier, to keep him quiet while I get him ready for his mother. Usually he’ll take it, reducing his wailing cry to a dissatisfied whimper. “Hurry up, Daddy,” I hear in my head. “I’m hungry.”

As I begin undressing Simon to get at the diaper, he usually finishes doing his business. Like he’s been waiting for an audience, someone to observe his great accomplishments in pooping. For this reason, I take my time getting the clothes removed and the diaper opened. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of a late deposit. Once the diaper is off and crannies are cleaned, there is a period of tugging and poking to get the diaper, liner and pins properly positioned. I’ve only poked myself twice, and drawn blood once; Simon has so far escaped unscathed.

A water-resistant cover envelops the whole shebang, and then the clothes go back on. The cloth diapers are one-size-fits-all, so they make Simon’s little newborn butt all puffy. It sometimes is a challenge to fit his lower end into whatever he’s wearing (the little Sweet Pea dresses are handy), because the added mass of cloth pretty much covers his legs down to the knees, making them less bendy. Eventually I get him dressed again, and by now he’s usually crying full force once again.

I lift him up, hand him to his mother, and he shuts up. Mission accomplished, I retreat to the bed. In just a couple of hours, I’ll get to do it all over again.