Multitasking

Parts of this entry are not recommended for middle-school age children.

4:30 am, the baby goes off.

Unnngghh. "I'll get the diaper." Sara grunts her acknowledgement. I roll out of bed and shuffle over to pick up Gwendolyn and take her into the bathroom.

I lay her on the changing pad and fumble around with her pajamas and onesie. Every snap button takes focus and effort. Step by step. Take it slow. It's early. Gwendolyn is grunting her displeasure, not yet moving to full wailing mode. That usually comes with tightening the diaper cover.

Rip, rip. The velcro on the diaper cover scratches the wee-hour silence. I pull the teeth of the diaper hooks out of the cloth. Here comes the part that requires coordination. I wipe a hand over my face and feel the crust in the corner of my eyes. Gwendolyn grunts, as if to ask me when this will be over with.

Then I hear the rumble from below: the tell-tale sign that the GI production line is about to distribute a package. I put a finger on the front of her folded cloth diaper, as if to prevent the thing from being blown off. I'm glad that didn't happen ten seconds later. I open up the diaper, pull it out from under her, and wipe the undercarriage.

Then I hear the gurgle.

It's now 4:35am, so the neurons are firing slowly. Too slowly. The gurgle announces that the GI production line is backed up and will momentarily release back-pressure. There ought to be sirens for these things. A single neuron--the late-night grey-matter security guard who's a little overweight and clumsy with his radio--sounds the alarm. Where's the burp cloth?!

Too late. A cascade of milk streams out of my infant's mouth and nostrils, coursing over her cheeks and onto the changing pad. There is the sour report of partially processed milk.

It's 4:36 am, and I finally get my hand on a burp cloth. I bring it to Gwendolyn's face and begin mopping up the slippery spill.

Then I hear the rumble again.

That single-neuron rent-a-cop in my brain drops his radio and wets himself. I know that sound. Hands frozen with a milk-soaked burp cloth around the face of my infant daughter, my bleary eyes look down at the naked underside of this milk-processing plant that is melting down and running over in all directions.

I hadn't put a new diaper down there yet.

Never was the word s**t more appropriate. The hard-earned final product of baby digestion ejects from its holding chamber all over the previously reusable diaper cover. How does she do both at once?

With the resignation that comes easily at 4:37 am, I finish cleaning up the top end. Now she's quiet, having relieved all production pressure. Thank God for that. I reach into the diaper drawer and pull out another cover. Somehow, in the Child Chernobyl that was my early morning, we hadn't managed to get anything stinky on the changing pad. That's one less piece of equipment we'll have to wash this week.

It's 4:40 am when I hand Gwendolyn to her mother for nursing. I've got one and a half hours left to sleep--if I can get the image of what just transpired out of my mind.

~emrys