So I learned a valuable lesson about parenting this week.
Nay, an essential lesson about parenting.
When you go to the store to buy baby powder, pay attention to the label!
You’re thinking, baby powder labels? Who cares? Baby powder is baby powder.
No, it isn’t.
You’ve got your expiration dates. Yes, baby power has an expiration date. Who knew? And some unscrupulous stores will still sell it to you.
If the hot dogs on rollers look leathery, be sure to check the date before you buy that baby powder. I’m looking at you, neighborhood 7-11. If you weren’t open all night, I’d never shop inside you.
You’ve got your minor differences: talc, corn starch, with or without aloe, cut with cocaine, not cut with cocaine.
Yes, it works both ways on the cocaine-cutting front, and if you’re putting your kid down for bed, make sure you use the cocaine-free stuff. Trust me on this.
Then you’ve got your major differences: mild, medium, spicy, Thai spicy.
Don’t buy the Thai spicy.
Trust me on this.
The screaming didn’t end for days.
I don’t know what possessed the baby powder manufacturers to expand their offerings beyond ‘Mild’. I guess there are babies out their who enjoy discomfort that ranges from slow burn to all-consuming fire on their nether regions.
Or maybe it’s parents, sleep deprived one day too many, who enjoy inflicting it?
I don’t know. But I do know this: I’m not the type of parent who wants to inflict this kind of character-building pain, nor, based on the recent test case, are my children interested in experiencing it.
Their pathological fear of diapers has yet to dissipate. Here’s how diaper changes go following…the Incident In The Nursery (or as I call it, The Curious Case of the Baby That Did Scream):
Me: [sing-song voice] “Do you have a poopy butt?”
Son: [backing up, scaling wall to nearest window] God, no! Stay away! A pox on your house! [looking plaintively at brother] Please! Kill me!
My son isn’t three yet, and he spontaneously developed the above vocabulary after a careless application of Thai spicy baby power by yours truly.
So if you can get past the side effects, maybe you can use this as a learning tool. Personally, I’d rather have inarticulate kids than go through this again, but your mileage may vary.
Even his brother, who witnessed the sad drama as it unfolded, has not been left unmarked. Whenever I approach him with a diaper, he looks at me with eyes narrowed and his breath catches with fear. I can see the assessment of the room taking place in his head: exits, witnesses, is daddy wearing a cup today or not.
It’s very sad. My kids aren’t afraid of a monster under the bed, or in the closet. They’re afraid of a daddy in those places instead.
Seriously. When the missus puts them down each night, they say, “There’s a daddy under the bed! It’s gonna get me and burn my poopy butt, which isn’t poopy by the way, so I don’t need a diaper change!”
And the missus dutifully looks under the bed, in the closet, behind their pillows, in the dresser, under the carpet, and everywhere else my kids scream there might be a daddy lurking.
I’m worried how this will affect the ties I get on Father’s Day in the future.
On the plus side, this has proven to be an excellent excuse to foist all diaper changes on the missus. She’s not happy about it, but the logic behind the decision is irrefutable. I withdraw to a respectful distance and smile at the thought that I’m not the one dealing with the screams and thumps of my little diaper conscientious objectors.
So maybe, dads out there, you do want Thai spicy baby powder.
Just don’t use corn starch – it’s plain wrong and illegal in eighteen states.
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