Changing Places

By Peter Dean

When our first child was born, our plan was simple—get to the hospital before the baby arrived. Now, with a toddler in tow, delivery day for our second child would require some coordination and planning, but with college degrees—in management, too—Michele and I knew what to do.

We had three options.

One choice was to take little Mike with us to the hospital. At 19 months old, he walked everywhere and explored everything. Within the first half-hour of our arrival at the hospital, we knew he would find a place to explore, far from Labor and Delivery.

Family was another option. My brother was eager to help. However, his track record was lacking. While babysitting one evening, my brother had forgotten to put a diaper on Mike while getting him ready for bed. When I told Uncle Jim of our wet discovery the next morning, he explained that he had been concerned about catching Mike’s “thing” in the zipper of his one-piece pajamas. Thus, Uncle Jim had forgotten the diaper. He hadn’t realized that putting a diaper on Mike would have eliminated this problem.

Our neighbors were the best choice. Their two girls were slightly older than Mike, so he would be kept busy. Plus, they were experienced parents. Our plan was perfect—until baby number two decided to arrive when the Bernards were out of town.

Michele went into labor at 4:30 on a Saturday morning. We combined our remaining options. Mike came with us to the hospital, and I called my brother when we reached Labor and Delivery. “Come and get Mike,” I told him.

“I’m on my way,” my brother replied.

Two hours later…

“Mr. Dean, your brother is in the waiting area.”

Fortunately, the bank of fetal monitors in my wife’s room had captivated Mike. He was still in my possession, but one of the monitors now seemed to be communicating with the space shuttle.

“Where were you?” I asked. The waiting area was empty and quiet. Fathers-to-be no longer wait in the waiting area.

“I went back to sleep. I didn’t think there was a rush.” My brother had never been in the same room as a woman in labor.

At that moment, I noticed a distinct smell. “I think you arrived just in time.”

My brother took a sniff. “You’re kidding me. Is that Mike? That is gross.”

“Yeah. He hasn’t been changed since we woke him and he’s been eating fruit. This will be ugly.”

I cleared a table in the waiting area where Mike could lie down. I pulled down his pants. His diaper had doubled in size. My brother retreated to the other side of the room and hid behind a chair.

“I need your help, Jim.”

“I’m not coming over there,” my brother answered. “I’ll throw up.”

“I just need you to reach into the backpack next to you and toss me a clean diaper and the butt paste. If I let go of Mike, he’ll roll off the table. Do it.”

Jim unzipped the diaper bag. He tossed the items to me. His eyes were closed.

I undid the tabs on Mike’s diaper. I had never seen so much crap in one diaper. Mike must have been saving for days just to show his uncle what he could do. I heard Uncle Jim make gagging sounds. Uncle Jim was impressed. I was impressed. Hazardous waste technicians would have been impressed.

I cleaned up the mess and packaged Mike into a fresh diaper. “That’s how it’s done,” I told my brother. “You won’t have to deal with another stinker today.”

Uncle Jim rose from behind the chair. He was slightly green. “I can’t believe you do that every day.”

“Handling the gross stuff is part of the fun of having kids. You learn to deal with it. He’s all yours,” I added. I needed to return to the main event. A nurse’s hands were not going to substitute for mine in cradling my new baby girl.

Mike took his dazed uncle’s hand and led him from the waiting area. When Mike was born, I had been the dazed adult. Now, not even two years later, that fog of uncertainty was gone. I stole a few quiet moments in the empty waiting area before heading back to my laboring wife.

I could hear the noise from a distance. I dashed into a room filled with intense activity. The doctor and nurses were focused on my wife’s lower region. I took a position at her side as she screamed in pain.

“Breathe, dear. Just relax and breathe.” (This is what fathers-to-be say to screaming wives—even the veterans.)

Michele grabbed my hand in a crushing grip. She glared at me through eyes bloodshot from the effort of pushing—and pushing.

“There she is,” the doctor exclaimed. “Wow, she’s a big one.”

Screams of pain were replaced with congratulations and my daughter’s squeaky cries. The doctor set our red and wrinkled little girl on my wife, and Michele and I absorbed the wonder of our new little girl, both of us somewhat dazed after all.