I know . . .
The above title is a polite (and coded) way of describing my son. For all the other parents out there, you know that this is par for the course, a regular part of conversation. Or maybe it's just us. (I really hope not.) Because it's weird. It's not as though my wife and I were previously in the habit of discussing the inner workings of our own . . . dietary systems, shall we say? But now, there is an almost daily conversation about our son's . . . well, you know.
And almost from the beginning, from his earliest soiled diaper, my wife managed to turn the entire unpleasant (odorous) experience into an amusing, melodic event. She sang. Still does, in fact. She managed to rework this classic Melodys tune (http://tiny.cc/BZXwW) and dubbed our son, "Poop Machine." And machine would prove to be apt. I might also be compelled to invoke the Patti Smith classic, "Piss Factory." Seriously, until you've experienced it firsthand, you cannot imagine how much, well, crap can come out of such a wee person.
This is yet another interesting development about becoming a parent. You begin to sing. All the time. About everything. Granted, my wife is a person who constantly had a song in her heart all along, but she really stepped up her game when the kid came along, truly unleashed her inner Kristin Chenoweth. "Poop Machine" was merely one in a line of updated, revised pop song homages or newly created ditties that accompanied the ongoing development of our child. Songs about pants, about socks, about taking a vitamin, and sucking on toes. A song about his bathtime (to the tune of "Good Morning" from Singin' in the Rain--it's a good one). Your entire life becomes musical, your daily dialogue begins to sound like the loopy word renderings of Dr. Seuss.
Parenthood is bizarre.
Can you imagine this behavior applied to any other facet of your life? Perhaps a trip to the grocery store. "I have a coupon for that salad dres-s-s-s-s-ing!" Or the gas station? "20 dollars on pump #7, #7, #7, #7!!!" The doctor's office? "It appears I have a strange raaaaash!" (ed. note - My wife insists that this would end with Jazz Hands. Jazz Hands!)
For me, though, ridiculous film fanatic that I am, there is only one association I can make in regard to my son's sometimes excessively dirty diapers. And that is the Golgothan, the mythical creature, produced by the warped imagination of Kevin Smith (refracted through his Catholic upbringing), from his oft-underrated flick, Dogma (http://tiny.cc/tGqdv). And I would call my son the Golgothan, but it is a mouthful. Poop Machine rolls off the tongue much easier, right?
I have to say, I was never crazy about getting a dog for this very reason, the fact that you have to clean up after them. And now this. But it's strange how things--instincts, I think you call them--just kick in. Even if you've never done it before, changing that first diaper is not exactly the rude awakening you might imagine. You just . . . do it. Oddly enough. Perhaps it's years of experience with your own body. After all, this is just a miniature version of you. Perhaps that's what makes it such an easy adjustment. But who knows for certain. And now, the contents of a diaper are a typical, daily subject of conversation.
How did we get here?
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