Friday, January 18, 2013

The Paternal P.O.V.

So as a father you get to witness the things that the "other guys" don't get to see happen with women.  That is the growing a baby procedure, the ultrasounds, the gaseous nature of a woman with child, the weird things hormones do, and the nesting instinct.  Oh those glorious adventures that are had on the journey to parentdom.  But post baby there is also a myriad of weird, and at times painful looking, events that need to take place.

There is a device out there that by the looks of it would make water boarding sound like a fun event on a family vacation with the in-laws, if in fact your in-laws were the former Commie leader Kim Jung Ill.

Oh reerry.

This contraption is called a breast pump.  No that isn't some new thing that they do on the Jersey Shore for foreplay, it is a device designed to drain the ducts and glands of Das Boobies.  As a guy who grimaced at the pump action penial extender return scene in Austin Powers, I saw this torture machine sitting silently next to our bed.  It's quiet reciprocating arm and humming electrical motor belay it's ability to suck the soul of a woman out through her teat.

But women find the need to congregate in places, which I loving call "Pumping Stations", to drain the breasts of their nurturing golden dew when the child is not around to do so for them.  That is understandable, but what bemuses me is they must perform the act at (what seems like) all times possible.  The idea is to increase their supply, freeze some for later, and relieve the pressure or any clogs.

The wild thing is women have been doing this for a LOOONNGGG time.  I stumbled upon this thing on a Google serach:

Dude, grandma's bong gets you legit high!
Ummmm, that's not a bong brah.

You can put that thing next to dentist cleaning tools as pieces of weaponry meant to be disguised as "safe" when in reality is they will bring a Navy SEAL to his knees in agony and have him admitting to every secret they know in minutes.

The crazier part is my wife will talk to herself about Jojo, watch our son on the baby monitor, or look at pictures of him to assist in getting the milk to drop. I never realized my wife's breasts and Dubstep had so much in common. Bass drops and milk drops create a fun, glow-stick twirling environment for everyone (under the age of 1).

As a man I don't entirely understand why they need to be hooked up to these things but I can tell you my son has no qualms about it since it just goes to ensure the juice is there when itch comes around.

I have a feeling the Paternal POV might be a regular occurrence since there is so much out there we were never, as men, meant to understand.

Dr. Diaper, we can't stop the flow....

...Said the ER nurse, Mrs. Elastic.

I don't know who reads this, I am assuming friends and family, a few random people that either come across it clicking around the blogger website, and anyone that has clicked a link I left where I might have left comments.  I do know that if you have a kid, are about to, or been around them, crap does happen.  And never in a controllable, cute "oh my, look at that little solid turd" kind of way.

If the SAW movies were to use poop instead of blood, it would be THAT kind of way.

This guy'd tap out first round of this game
Every parent, nanny, babysitter, older sibling, grandparent, priest, Scout leader, and the Virgin Mary herself have dealt with the dreaded blowout.  Sometimes it is a simple up the back, or leg leak.  But then sometimes poop ends up in places you'd never expect it to be, and how it journeyed the way it did marvels even the brightest nuclear scientists in the world.  Especially an infant, breastfed baby's poop.

First off an infant's poop is a mustard, dingy yellow.  Remember in the box of Crayola crayons there was, as many a young lad has referred to it, the "poop brown" and "puke green" crayons that were never used but always pulled out to "smell" it and see if it smelled like it looked?  Yeah, take those and with the fire of Mount Doom in the land of Mordor of Middle Earth, combine then into one color.  It would become the color known as 'The Brown Eye of Sauron'.  That's the color of a baby's poop, with the all-controlling powers of the One Ring.

Secondly, a baby's poop is something to the consistency of road tar, molten magma, and used motor oil.  It's very viscous, usually hot to the touch, and becomes super sticky shortly after emission and full of shavings.  What that creates is a slurry that looks and feels like it could pass as Indian food but in actuality is a biological hazard that the UN has sanctions against countries that produce it.  So basically it is like a poisonous Slimer from the Ghostbusters.

Well on one unfortunate day the diaper was unable to hold the onslaught of the Turd Titan as it was bequeathed from my son's body.  But only on one side, and despite the colossal mess that was created, it came silently in the night like the last plaque came upon the Egyptians.  And mighty was the wailing in the streets afterwards.

Jojo demonstrates the many faces made that day.

So as good parents, and trying to prep ourselves for what was to come, we decided to change Jojo.  I had the misfortune to have the first contact made with the enemy, but the contact wasn't made when the pants were removed.  Nay, nay.  The first contact came upon the removal of the left sock.  While the term "uncorking" brings about images of people at a party opening wine or a bottle of bubbly, this uncorking brought about sheer despair.

The Tunnel of Turd.
After removing the outer layers we found ourselves in a perilous situation.  The onesie was still on the baby, and when you have a baby who inherits his father's head size, you create a scenario that will only end up with poop in the little bit of hair on the baby's head.  So after consulting a rule book that doesn't exist, my wife and I performed a procedure that I saw several times on one of my favorite childhood shows, Rescue 911.


Pinkies up for safety.

Dad, I think they need to make onesies to handle my manliness, I ripped out of this one poop in the fuzzies.

After the trimming came the cleansing.  Because we all know that unclean feeling that we get after we defecate down our leg.  Oh you don't know that feeling?  Try experiencing it....

Hey mom, what's that on your face?
Luckily for us this was during the Thanksgiving weekend and Nana and Papa were in town with us, so they got to relish the occurrence, if one could relish a mustard gas attack with nothing more than a paper bag and sweaty gym sock for a respirator.  So we moved on in our evening with a clean, albeit completely empty, Jojo and we all slept peacefully in a post a-poop-alyptic house.

I bite my thumb at you poopy diaper.
Until we meet again.