Three and a half years ago, when I first learned I was having a little boy, I’ll admit I was disappointed. I know every parent says they don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl as long as the baby is healthy, but I’ll admit I really wanted a little girl. Not that I have anything against little boys, especially now that I have one, but I didn’t know how well I’d relate to a boy. Not only am I a girl, but I had a little sister, so I know girl stuff. We played with Barbies and My Little Pony. We wore pink dresses with frills. We put on plays in our backyard and “rocked” out to Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. We drooled over New Kids on the Block and hung up posters from Teen Beat. Girls, I know.
Boys, on the other hand, well, they are still a mystery to me. They like bugs and dirt and farts. All things I dislike. They play with guns and action figures and baseballs. Again, all things I dislike. They teased and tormented me from ages 6-18. Which, I probably don’t need to add, I disliked.
I’ll admit when the ultra sound tech told us it was a boy, I did shed a tear or two. But then I quickly got over it, started picking out names and buying cute (non-sporty) baby boy things and realized that even if I wasn’t going to be able to buy baby dolls and adorable little lacey dresses, I could still dress my infant son in onesies with baby duckies and zoo animals. The moment he was born, any question I had about wanting a little girl went out the window. I adored everything about him, from his slightly big head (my husband’s family all have HUGE heads) to the tiny toes on his not so tiny feet (again, my husband wears a size 13 shoe).
Still, I did have one major concern about having a little boy: getting sprayed. If movies and TV have taught me anything, it’s that little boys are unpredictable with their bathroom habits. Their little penises are like geysers, just waiting to blow when your guard is down. They even market products like the Wee Block and the Pee-pee Teepee to help combat this problem. I distinctly remember being horrified as Drew Barrymore got a mouthful of urine in the movie Riding in Cars With Boys. I had nightmarish visions of my son’s little wiener going up and moments later realizing I was gargling urine.
Although I didn’t actually buy one of the pee stoppers, I did find myself becoming a master of the quick change. I had the new diaper ready and in a split second yanked the old one away while putting the new one on top of his penis just in case he had the urge to squirt. Miraculously, he never did. That’s right, in three years of diapering my son, I never once had to witness a baby Bellagio. At least not from him. One of my husband’s friends brought his son over for a play date once, and that kid managed to water not only his father, but my son’s changing pad and the bedroom wall, not once, not twice, but thrice in the five hour visit. When he left my son had nothing on his changing table but a cold plastic changing pad and my washer was running. But my son, not once.
That’s not to say I never would up with urine on me. Sure, he leaked through a diaper or two here and there, but usually he had the good sense to do it when he was laying in his crib or in his car seat, so I rarely felt that oozy warm liquid seep over my clothing.
So imagine my surprise when I went to change my daughter’s diaper and found myself not being sprayed by a geyser, but rather being slowly trickled on like a drinking fountain. Yes, that’s right, I made it three years without getting sprayed by my son, but my daughter has already gotten me three times in her two weeks of life. Ok, in all fairness, the last time she didn’t get me, she got the nurse at the doctor’s office, but you get the point.
The funny part of that was that I had just finished telling the nurse that my son had never sprayed me, but that she’d already gotten me twice, once somewhere between 1 and 2 am, so I was so foggy I wasn’t sure what was happening at first. By the time I’d realized it, everything was soaked and I ended up with a screaming baby because before I could feed her, I had to completely change her and then rub her down with some baby wipes.
The nurse was laughing as I put my daughter on the scale. Seconds after taking her diaper off, she let loose and soaked the entire scale. She also soaked the paper on the exam table when I moved her over to clean her up. So I once again had to give her a baby wipe bath, which only got her ire up.
I guess I should have known I was in for trouble her second day of life when she had her first “dirty” diaper. I heard noises and thought it was safe to change. Little did I know she wasn’t done yet. As I finished cleaning her bottom of that nasty, tar-like meconium, I found a new well of it bubbling up and slowly oozing out to get me. I escaped harm and cleaned her up again, only to be hit a third time. At that point I gave up trying to stop it and just let her soil two diapers.
This one’s gonna be trouble. Yes, she is.