Lucy has a propensity for ginormous poopy explosions. They are truly magnificent, in volume and frequency. Moving her into a bigger size diaper has made no difference. She is simply an extraordinary pooper.

However, I am the only one who can appreciate her special skill, because I am the only one who truly experiences them.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m the only one who changes diapers in our house. I’m not. Dave changes diapers. Wet diapers. Even the occasional poopy diaper, though he tries to avoid it. But poopy explosions? NO WAY.

I explained it like this to my BBF Karly when she asked if Dave cleaned up the poopy explosion that hit on my birthday: The only way Dave would clean up a poopy explosion is if my arms were amputated and, even then, only after I’d proven I couldn’t do it with my feet.

Poopy explosions are Dave’s kryptonite; they render him completely helpless. The moment Lucy shows the slightest inclination that a poopy is in the works, he flees the scene. He happened to be holding her once when the launch sequence began. He immediately pushed her away from him and held her like a bomb. Then he tossed her to me, like a grenade as he ran away saying, “Here’s the baby. I think she needs changed.”

Dave would tell you that I’m overstating the situation. I offer the following incident from last Sunday as evidence to the contrary.

Dave was holding Lucy. I was downstairs in the family room playing Guitar Hero, because if I didn’t get fifteen minutes to blow off some steam, someone was going to have their face ripped off. I knew something was up when I could hear stomping and groaning over the music I had turned up to eleven. And then it started.


Me: “Yes?”


Me: (to Dave) “In the diaper caddy!” (to myself) “Dumbass.”

Dave: (suddenly sounding like a whiny 12-year-old) “BUT THERE AREN’T ANY IN THERE!!!”

Me: (to Dave) “Then try the changing table!!” (Seriously? Is that so hard to figure out? Think about it: if you were a diaper, where would you be?)


Me: “WHAT?!”

Dave: “Nah. You’re busy…”

And so I turned off my game and stomped up the stairs to “help,” but it was too late. He was determined to “do it on his own,” which meant he was hellbent on showing me how incredibly difficult the task was by exaggerating every agonizing step of the diaper changing process.

He held his hands like a surgeon who’d just washed up for an operation and ripped baby wipe after baby wipe out of the container. He groaned and gagged with each wipe, then turned in circles looking for a place to put the soiled items. He finally settled on the table. My dining room table. And when the struggle was over, he left the debris lie and dragged himself to the couch, sat there and sighed. For ten minutes.

I contemplated killing him, but instead, I cleaned up the dining room table and said, “You know, you left the dirty diaper on the table.”

“Oh. Sorry. I was gonna get that.”

“Uh-huh. So, where did you put her poopy outfit? I need to wash it out before it stains.”

“Oh, she didn’t get any on her outfit.”

“So, it wasn’t really a poopy explosion.”

“OH NO IT WAS! It got all over me!!! I had to go and change my shorts and everything!”

“When did you change your shorts?”

“Before I changed the baby.”

“And where was the baby?”

“I gave her to your mom.”

He actually tried to pass off the poopy explosion to my mom, first! The creep.

And then he said, “Yeah, but she was no help. She left it all up to me.”


Stinkin’ poop-fearing girly man. It’s a good thing he’s good in bed. Otherwise, he’d be dead. Or at least kicked in the weiner.