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

Dad's first letter to his son

“We lift our glass to the awful truth that you can't reveal to the ears of youth except to say it isn't worth a dime.” Leonard Cohen

Dad and Son climbing Flattop

It took me three years to make Alaska my home.

Let me begin with your story. Your were born on a Thursday. You were born in a Hurricane. Hurricane Igor. The gods sent storms. Breezes and warm water somewhere off the coast of Africa moved west, building strength and anger, until is culminated in the Carribean and blew hard on the people of island nations.

Meanwhile, here in Anchorage a windstorm ripped out trees and shut down power to various portions of the municipal electrical grid. The hospital lost light to several areas of the campus. Of course the vital machinery was maintained. But the cash registers at the cafeteria were shut off. So Dad got a free lunch. Your mother got her meals included as an admitted patient to the hospital. But Dad had to go down to the lunch counter. He filled up a plate of tacos and corn chips. But he didn't have to pay.

Today is a Thursday, eight weeks old. You and your father and the dogs climbed Flattop Mountain. We made it to the top just as the sun was setting. It's your first mountain peak. There'll be more. Charlie Parker is wailing out tunes tonight on the vinyl spinner. Night and Day. Dad got this record in Minneapolis. I'll tell you that story. But let me get back to yours. That is where we said we would begin.

It was a rainy summer as you swam around in Mom's belly. In fact, records were broken. More than thirty days of rain in a row. But as August wore on to September, the weather warmed and the sun made regular visits to Anchorage.

The summer rain almost broke your father's spirit. He was still sick. He had to face some of the darkest hours of his life in the middle of the longest days of the year. The sun barely set in July. But we never saw it, save a few precious evenings when the sun would descend below the ceiling of clouds that push up off the Cook Inlet and settle on the Anchorage Bowl. Dad considering ending it all.

When a person feels that way he begins to tell himself silly things. He even told his friend Pete that he would sell all his woodworking tools. He figured that now that you were coming along, he'd have no time for anything but you.

Take heart that you were the focus of Dad's attention even before he saw your face. But he wasn't seeing the world clearly. The rain had clouded his mind.

Alpine Diaper Change

Our friend Paul had told your Mother not to tell anyone the name that we had picked while you were still a creature of the waters. So she told all the world you were Igor. We knew that your were a boy. The ultrasonagrapher told us when you were just nineteen weeks from conception. We had to know because of three very important people: Aunties Ora and Heather and honorary auntie Kristin. They are artists who have since made you the baby gifts we treasure most of all. We wanted to be sure that they would not have to worry about which colored yarns and fabrics to use.

Daddy preferred Junior. And it might well have been appropriate. After all, when you told Mommy that you were ready to emerge from the briny depths of the the womb, some climatologists fixed on Matthew as the name of yet another storm building off the eastern seaboard. And your initial descent through the cervical threshold held promise of a forceful escape. It was a Wednesday night. Dad was out on his bicycle, lingering in the Indian-summer glow. When he finally got home, Mom was more than ready to go to the hospital. Off we sped. But just as Hurricane Matthew started violent, you both slowed as you approached dry land. It took you twenty-two hours.

It took Dad over three weeks to get to Alaska. No land records were broken. Canada proved a welcoming destination. Dad quickly grew fond of the mountains and lonely gravel roads that led sometimes North, but just as often back South to catch the main routes that must ultimately be taken to arrive at the doorstep of Alaska.

He was coming to his new home, but mostly fleeing his old haunts in Minnesota. The rain had fallen harder in the Spring of 2007 than he could ever imagine. He had failed himself. Well, that's what he chose to believe. But only time will reveal the truth. Our emotions tempt us to fabricate the present tense.

Look, a Sunset!

Now you are here with me. And you have exceeded all expectations. Welcome to the world, Son. You have taken this pile of wood and made it our home.

Your father has had to struggle in ways that are not visible to most people. He bleeds from somewhere deep in his brain. 

He tried to make a home out of this log cabin. And he went about the business in manner he knew best: reading books. Then he began to acquire tools, stone, lumber and paint. But when he went to pick up his hammer, he was consumed by doubt. This was the insecurity of an adolescent who must always prove his worth to the men around him, men who know how to swing a hammer. All that he had read was so fine and sure, but practice is so less perfect than theory.

I don't know what I have given you by my seed. I hope that you are strong of body, and sure of mind. I have not always been either of those things. I have been sick for many years. Perhaps all of my life. There have been times of remission, but through my early adulthood they grew rare.

My brain is like a an old house. It might have wires whose insulation has worn thin. Somewhere there might be a light that doesn't always turn on when you flick the switch. And maybe if you live in it long enough, you can learn the house's quirks and get by. But there is a real danger that lurks beyond sight. Perhaps behind a bedroom wall, or over a ceiling joist, there is a faulty connection that could spark. The spark may set a flame that catches hold. One night while you are blissfully sleeping that flame turns to fire and it all burns down.

I have always been committed to preventing that from taking my life. But however similar a brain might be to an old house, it is infinitely more complex. You see, the faulty wiring in my brain is invisible even to me. And sometimes my brain tries to convince me that it wouldn't be so bad if a little spark sets fire and burns me down.

There was just such a spark that was working at my defenses this past summer. And there you were, afloat my Mommy's belly, unaware of my very existence. It is a very real possibility that you might have never met me. And I knew right then that that was not a chance I was willing to take. So Mommy helped me make the decision to seek help.

Dog Louise on Flattop

All the things that I had been doing to prevent such terrible things from happening proved insufficient. I had been seeing a therapist. I did yoga and meditated. I watched my diet and exercised every day. I went to sleep early every night and did not drink alcohol or use drugs. I was engaged in our community and found meaning in the work that I did. I had friends who loved me and a family who was always there for me. And yet I could still entertain thoughts that said it would be better if I were gone.

Mom said she couldn't do it alone. She would not have me gone and be left to raise you by herself. Your Mommy loves us both very much, Lelly-Lit. We're lucky.

On the day you were born the winds blew down trees and took out power lines. The gods were jealous that they had lost you to the earth and they wanted to remind everyone that you came from them. They wanted no one to forget how strong they are. We are weak. We are mere ants chewing at the wood. Someday the house will fall. But I will not allow it to burn on my account.

This is my first letter you you.

Sincerely,

Your Father