A while ago, I kept a blog that started to document the life of my nephew, whom I lovingly dubbed Fred while he was in the womb. Turned out his name was going to be Phoenix but I really liked Fred so I wrote about him as Fred.
I happened to find one of the letters I wrote to Fred and it made me grin a bit. So I thought I’d share it.
I have a confession to make.
I don’t know how to change a nappy.
I said don’t laugh! I’ve never had the opportunity or when I have, I’ve rather quickly found a handy hiding place in which to take cover until the deed was done by Someone Else™. Now there are no other someone else’s to fall back on. I will inevitably be required to take care of you on my own at one point or another, peanut, so knowing the exact right way to wipe your arse is rather important, I suppose. Ideally, I’d prefer it if you just stayed cute and cuddly and didn’t poop ever for the duration that you’re in my company but in an ideal world I’d be the Supreme Ruler of the Universe with an inexhaustible supply of white chocolate scorched almonds and we all know how soon that’s going to happen. The closest I’ve gotten to either of those things is living ten minutes away from a chocolate factory that produces said chocolate almondy goodness…
At least I can say you’re not like another unfortunate kid (that belongs to a friend) when it comes to the poopage at this stage of your life (yet). You’re shitting like a slot machine – “with monotonous regularity”, to quote a great, hairy man by the name of Big Yin who you will no doubt one day come to love as I do.
But I digress.
Obviously MS and Grandma thought my lack of nappy-changing was completely unacceptable, as they should, so last night in the cover of semi-darkness (due to the power being out and not some Satanic – well, unless you count the unholy smell – ritual) I was dragged into your room and shown precisely how to disrobe, peel, paint and powder you properly.
I am yet to get over the whole “baby is fragile” thing that I’ve got going at the moment, even though I have been shown time and time again that you little wriggly, whiney, poopy, worm things are actually made of rubber and bounce really well… MS thought my gasp of horror as your Grandma fairly ripped the jumpsuit from your body in the style of which was probably gleaned from all those ridiculous bodice-ripper romance novels she reads, was rather funny. Even funnier was my expression of horror as she then hoicked you up by your legs at an obscene angle to throw your replacement nappy under your butt.
MS cacked herself at my expense. Fortunately I don’t have to change her nappy.
Okay kid, next time I go over to visit you I am on nappy duty.