The Adventure of the Swimmie Diapers. (scatological humor involved)

I have a long, awkward, complicated relationship with swimmie diapers.  When I was in college, I was a security guard at a Holiday Inn in Florida for one summer.  One of my primary jobs was to ensure that children of diapered age were properly adorned.  I’d carry around a pink/purple stack of swimmies and approach parents and ask if they needed any diapers.  The primary problem with this assignment is that a 20-year-old single guy with no younger siblings has quite literally no idea how old kids are when they stop wearing diapers.  I probably offended three sets of parents per week, all summer.

Yesterday I developed a brand new reason to detest swimmies. We are at my wife’s parents’ house, and the pool out in the yard is, to put it mildly, a hit with the grandkids.  LB has developed a pretty good tan, despite the fact that we have slathered him with SPF 3500 baby sunscreen.

Given that we are between attempt #1 and attempt #2 of potty training, LB is rocking the swimmie diaper.  And, though I don’t think he tried, he could not have timed his first poop in the diaper any better, if his goal was to get a funny blog post about it.

After a morning of MPD, I came back to the house and changed into my swimsuit.  I had planned on playing with the whole family, but it ended up being just me and LB splashing around the pool, and having a blast.  He had a routine of climbing up the ladder into the pool, being carried screaming and splashing around it, then running across the yard to the porch, then running to the kiddie pool, and then starting the routine over.  I was in the “big pool.”  On one of his trips, I noted a new and distinct odor.  Having just dipped him into the water, I immediately scrambled to carry him out of the pool.

By the time I got him to the edge of the porch, he was screaming at the thought of no longer playing in the pool.  I, on the other hand, was doing some mental gymnastics to figure out how I was going to get his diaper off, clean the trail of sludge now running down his leg, get a new diaper, and properly sanitize the situation, all without touching him.  The dog was curiously sniffing LB’s backside, and (I’d like to think) laughing at me.

After a futile attempt at yelling for help, I decided to take the diaper off to more properly assess the situation.  It was far worse than I could have imagined, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I gagged a little bit.  I wadded the squishy mess into a ball and looked around for a suitable place to stash it.  None was apparent, so I put it on the ground beside the porch, and prayed (out loud) that the dog wouldn’t eat it.

Bad decision #1 so far was carrying LB to the porch to do all of this.  Now I had poop on the front porch, poop on both of my hands, poop on absolutely every article of clothing on LB’s body, and nothing to wipe any of it down with, whatsoever.  And did I mention I was by myself?  As I surveyed my next round of decisions, I had the sinking suspicion that there was no such thing as a good one.

I’m not sure, but I don’t think James Dobson has written a chapter on preventing the dog from eating a soggy poop-filled diaper while you hose your squealing, naked child off in the in-laws front yard.  If he has, I’ve yet to read it, and it’s too late now.

Let’s put it this way:  I am SO looking forward to the day the scrawny, clueless college kid asks me if my six-year-old needs a diaper in the hotel pool.