Soggy Bottoms and Baggy Eyes

November 21, 2010

Lelly-Lit

V.P. of Waste Production 

Diaper Factory, LLC

911 Potty Street

Lelly-Lit’s Pants, Emotional State 0I50N

Dear Lelly-Lit, 

I hope this letter finds you well-rested and dry.

I am writing to inform you of a recent concern regarding the frequency and magnitude of your diaper changes. Please know first and foremost that I hold you and your work in highest esteem. As your principal care-giver it is my job to keep your your well-being at heart. Please do not take this letter as an indictment of your professional judgement or an insult to your character.

Forgive me if you consider me overly frank to say that you stink. Not all the time. In fact most of the time you smell quite lovely. Roses come to mind. I am only repeating what has been said to me and that which has crossed my desk in the form of official complaints. These comments have become increasingly common and so I must air them before they fester. 

My records indicate that your first incident of “Smelly Diaper” occurred two weeks ago. Your father was shopping at Natural Pantry with you in tote. He reports to have noted an insistent fussiness on your part and a refusal to drink your milk. He states that he brought the issue up with you, but your response was to simply pout and moan. But moreover, you were drooling and your comportment was, and I quote, “highly unprofessional and ripe with self-entitlement.” It was as if you considered your father’s singular station in life was to meet your every demand and satisfy your every desire.

I am sickened to think that you would behave this way, Lelly-Lit. I have done everything in my power to raise you better than that. I will not have you treating everyone around you as a prop in your needy drama.

Finding no other recourse, Dad took you in his arms and brought you into the public restroom. Being that it was the men’s room, it follows that there was no changing station. He was forced to balance you between the double sinks. This,however, proved more an asset than liability. 

Imagine, if you will, a jar of Jiffy© crunchy peanut butter. Spoon out about a cup worth into a blender. Add 4-6 oz of half-curdled milk and a a big scoop of cottage cheese. Tapioca pudding could be substituted for the dairy. Blend on low, one minute or until peanut butter is evenly mixed with dairy. Consistency should be that of a soggy peanut butter cookie dough with way too much shortening.Take a rubber spatula and spread it roughly even all over Lelly-Lit’s diaper and on Lelly-Lit’s nether regions. Make sure you get it into his folds and under any flaps of skin. Yield should be enough to overwhelm the two cloth diapers and squeeze out into the diaper cover. 

This is where the proximity to running water and paper towels proved a clutch play. And despite how prepared Dad-the-Former-Boyscout typically is, he was taken aback by the stench. What had happened? You used to have such lovely, well-formed bowel movements that smelled like nothing in particular. And you were as regular as a vegan working on an organic farm somewhere in lovely Napa Valley. This little disaster was three days in the making. It was as if you were saving it up in case Daddy would need ammunition with which to ward off a night prowler.

Thank you for the kind gesture. You’re very sweet, son.

Had this been an isolated incident, I would have simply filed the complaint and not given it another thought. Your attitude and performance since joining us has been exemplary. In fact, I might say a little too good. You seem to sleep an awful lot. Please keep in mind that this is your job.

Your Mother was the butt of the next little joke. She had come home from a long, two-day stretch at work. She was exhausted and her mammary glands were swollen. All she wanted was a little help from you. But it seems that you were too concerned for your own rest to be of much use. Asleep at the job. But every time she de-latched you, you decided you were in fact hungry and would re-latch just long enough to fall back asleep. After growing more than tired of your sick antics, she decided to put you down in your crib so she could get out the breast pump. 

Meanwhile, you fussed a little and then dozed off. So Mommy happily milked herself with the pump in relative peace. But no sooner had she topped off that you woke up with a vengeance. Sleep-induced, ravenously-hungry wails soon followed. So she put you on to feed on the dregs left by the machine. You latched on with the force of foal to a mare. Clearly disappointed with the low output, you shimmied and shaked, kicking your feet and jiggling the sac. Mom was sooo pleased. So she de-latched you again, put you in the crib, got out of bed, and amid the clammor of your lamenting, went to fix a bottle. 

By the time she returned your face had turned into a pruned-shaped, teary-eyed melodrama starring Fussy Face. So Mom quickly plugged your principal hole with a silicone nipple full of freshly pumped milk. The sucking could be heard clear across the house in the woodshop where Daddy was trying not to take his fingers off with the tablesaw. 

After 5 minutes, 33 seconds and a good 3.7 oz of fresh-squeezed Mommy sunshine in a bottle, you had cleaned house. Out came the bottle, and behind it more screaming. Were you still hungry? Was that even possible? So Mother picked you up and placed you on her shoulder to give you a few light swats to the lower back. Between wails came a burp which shook the walls and brought a tear to your proud Father’s eye. Of course Mommy’s nose was in a key position during all this. She knew without a doubt what was really going on here. 

You had one-upped yourself this time. No sooner had feeding time finished and it was already bath time. A couple diapers and a change of clothes wasn’t going to cut it this time. Your Mom filed the complaint later that evening after you had finally gone to sleep.

It was clear by the tone of the missive that she was more than a little sleep-deprived. The Mommy I know is a cordial, well-mannered Southern lady. I will not repeat what she wrote. Let me just say that her offended olfactory glands were mentioned more that once.

With two complaints lodged in less than a week, I knew that I could not avoid confrontation. I brought you before me to issue a verbal warning. You expressed not a splinter of remorse. What’s more, you insisted it wasn’t your fault. You had the nerve to imply that it was somehow your Mother’s fault. Your Mother! The woman who gave you life, carrying you in her womb for nine months only to have to push you through a threshold that was about as suited to the task as the eye of a needle to a camel. How dare you!

The woman has been working so much, you’re lucky she is producing any milk at all. She does thirty-hour shifts every third day. And then she comes home to this? And you have the temerity to pass off your dirty laundry onto her! We prefer breast milk to formula just as much as you. But the salad days are over, my dear. Mommy is back to work and Lelly-Lit is just going to have to suck it up and learn how to digest. 

I have already warned you. I recommend that you read this letter well and keep it with you to serve as a reminder. We are not pleased the the “Smelly Diaper”. And remember: Mommy and Daddy love your very much. Daddy is just kidding. He’s just taking funny because he’s not sleeping much lately. This is all a big joke. He’s really quite proud of the impressive output. Keep it up.

Sincerely yours,

Daddy

101 Fatherhood Street

Hard Knocks, AK 0l50N 

Photo credits:


http://www.pdclipart.org/displayimage.php?album=44&pos=73

http://images.nypl.org/index.php?id=802545&t=w

http://www.coolnotions.com/PDImages/LifeOfChrist022_pg117_VisitOfTheThreeWiseMen.jpg