Diapers

I haven't changed a diaper in so long that I think it might have been my own. I know how they work, but do I really? Putting a diaper on a doll to practice is stupid because they don't move around. It's not like you can say to your infant, "Okay, keep still there, pumpkin, Daddy's new at this."

So in exchange for three treats and a later bedtime, Tulip agreed to act as proxy. I also promised not to take pictures, but then I remembered that I'm the alpha.


She'll pay me back in the next life.

Diapers are unbelievably absorbent, you know. After liberating Tulip, I poured an entire glass of water in the crotch/butt part. It got pretty heavy, but I could turn that sucker upside-down with nary a drip. They must have some crazy super-absorbent polymer, much like the powder sold at the magic shop.

Okay, so you put a teaspoon of it in the bottom of a glass, then pour water from a pitcher in front of your victim. Then you fling the water into your victim's face, except it sticks in the glass because the powder instantly turns it to thick gel. It's great for getting dates. When they first started selling it at the Mall of America, I heard that in under a month someone had done all the toilets on the third floor. Um, can we say awesome?

I swear it wasn't me.

So anyway, when my daughter is all Miley and I'm all Billy Ray (meaning that I'm stinking rich), I will use diapers to clean everyday spills. You know the commercial where the little boy spills a gallon-pitcher of red Kool-Aid and his high-heeled Stepford mother sops it up with one paper towel? It says "Dramatization" in nano-font in the lower-left corner. But I will live that reality with diapers, the new thicker, quicker, picker-upper.

Yet somehow I can imagine my daughter's excretions circumventing the elastic leg-bands of these diapers. She will take glee in it, somehow. And I will clean her off with, you guessed it, more diapers.