Up a Hill Without a Diaper

Published in February, 2011

Let’s face it: we’re good. Four months in and we’ve got this parenthood gig down. We even know Charlie’s cries:

• The Whine and Cheese Cry – a simple annoyance. Kid’s bored and needs a good belly tickle, a foot rub, or a stroll around the block. This is pure attention craving.

• The Do Your Job Cry – he needs a diaper and sleep, maybe a boob, and this is his way of not so subtly reminding us of why we’re here. Simple stuff folks.

• The Chortle Cry – the hybrid that’s exactly how it sounds. Think it’s a laugh and he’ll call your bluff and dive into the Fuck You Rattle. Think it’s a cry and comfort him with a coo and he’ll go full smile and belly laugh.

• The Fuck You Rattle – The deep gurgle-hiccup sounding job means stop the goddamn bus this kid’s not fucking around.

We know the signs, understand his looks, and, unless we’re deep into a car ride, we rarely experience the Fuck You Rattle. We’ve grown confident, arrogant even, and we’re pushing matters these days: a longer meal, an extra drink, an extra store or two at the mall. We’re taking back our lives and we’re bringing the little dude along for the ride.

Oh, and we’re equipped: stroller with multiple seating options and some kick-ass shocks to minimize the bumps and bounces, a backpack hiking bag, a “Charlie can feel like he’s back in the womb” wrap, yet one more carrier where he can face in or out- his choice- and dangle his little legs the whole way. We’ve got diaper bags, wipes, a portable changing table, toys, and a Daddy who’s not afraid to sing nonsense songs, whistle loudly, make funny faces, dance, mime, contort, quack- yes, I said quack- or speak in an infinite variety of accents and dialects. What else could a kid need!

So fast forward to last Saturday’s bizarre Frozen Dead Guy Days, an event that, believe it or not, is exactly how it sounds. We’re talking hearses! Coffin races! Zombie parades! Turkey bowling and brain freeze contests! And, of course, a frozen dead guy carted through town like some sort of King Tut. I mean, right? What kind of self-respecting, responsible parents would avoid taking their 4-month old to this event? Frozen dead in Nederland, CO where, at 9,000 ft elevation, you can count on frigid temperatures, wind, and a good ole’ fashioned squall or two.

We make the curvy, uphill 17-mile trek from Boulder. Charlie’s favorite music- LCD Soundsystem- jamming through the speakers, his Sophie giraffe teething toy in his man hands- kid’s got some mitts! – and Mommy feeding him from the bottle – not his first choice, but a fine alternative nonetheless.

Again, we’ve got this down.

Charlie puts in his two cents, a clear Whine and Cheese, so Ash is distracted as she pokes his belly. Parking is tight. Expected, of course, given the marriage of spectacle in a one stoplight town- if there’s even one. Charlie’s cry has skipped right over the ‘Do Your Job’ and he’s half-laughing, half-crying now. No worries, really, given that we’re here. We drive down all three of the town’s four streets- one is closed for the zombie parade- and end up parking with a makeshift spot on the side of a hill even San Franciscans would fear. We’re talking a 70° angle here, folks. So given the wind, the elevation, and my golden retriever spirit, I volunteer to wear Charlie with his face against my chest. I click the carrier’s straps, fighting gravity. One false step and you’re in for a tumble. I mean it. Cartoon-style tumble, dust and all.

So the carrier’s snapped, Charlie’s in full-fledged Fuck You Rattle. We’re talking music-halting, parade-stopping, ice-melting screams. And then I catch it, the sweet aroma of soiled diaper.

“I’m not sure about this diaper,” I say.

Ash: “We changed him before we left the house. He should be fine.”

“No, really. He stinks.”

“Baby poop doesn’t stink.”

“Uh. Here.” I pull Charlie out from the carrier and shove his rear in her face. “That.”

She shrugs- as close to concession as I’ll get out of her- and then pulls out the portable changing table. She sets Charlie in the middle of the back seat, her left leg keeping the door from slamming shut on her and her right hand rolling Charlie back into place, fighting against gravity to keep him on his back.

She pulls off his fleece snowsuit and…

WARNING: the following scene is graphic.

… we’re talking Spud from Trainspotting, folks, Harry on the toilet in Dumb and Dumber. COMBINED. Charlie’s onesie has transformed into the worst toilet in Scotland and here we are fighting like sailors in a hurricane to stay upright. Wind slamming the door against Ash’s hip, Charlie rolling face first into the seat, spreading the mess as if he’s a spoonful of peanut butter and the seat a piece of bread.

Ash hands me a ball of cloth and wipes, no inch unsoiled, and I hike up the hill, hands outstretched. Onlookers see this and they must wonder if they’ve missed the year’s new sponsored event: the Gulden’s brown mustard snowman competition. The goddamn wind, slapping me senseless, is threatening to break apart the mass of mess into individual shit-stained cannonballs.

Not a garbage bin in sight. I blow back down towards the car, open the trunk, and toss the literal ball of shit into a reusable Whole Foods bag.

And then he pees. Up, down, sideways. He’s hosing down the car as if it’s a dirty sidewalk.

We have no alternative here. His onesie’s balled up with ruined diaper and tumbleweeding down the hill in a Whole Foods bag. I go to chase after it when I hear Ash grumble. She says, “Um.” The inside of his fleece is no longer gray and is soaked through from Charlie’s most recent torrential pee.

And what’s Charlie doing? He’s laughing his ass off, this little 4-month old who just shed half his body weight. He laughs and smiles and blows raspberries.

“Diaper,” I say, handing it to Ash.

She holds his little torso down and as she goes to fasten the tape, he rolls away face first into the seat. She flips him back, holds him down, grabs the tape, and again, he rolls against the seat. “Help,” she says.

I lean against the door and hold him down, my weight pushing against Ash as she struggles to stand upright, and only then does she get the diaper set. Note to self: it takes two to fasten a diaper to a 15 lb. baby when standing on a hill with a 70° incline.

I mean really, what else can we do? Here in this tiny town, where there are more medicinal marijuana dispensaries than residents, on a day when the town carts around a frozen dead guy and thousands cheer’em on.  We laugh too. We clean off the snowsuit best we can, zip him up, fold him back against my chest, tighten up the carrier, and head down towards the center of town.

“What’s this?” I point to Charlie’s forehead.

She leans forward, squints. “Is that shit?”

I nod. “Yes?”

So maybe the learning curve winds ahead in the horizon like the long road back home.