Babies Are Gross

Baby Sasha seemingly learns something new every day. I’d like to say she’s “early” or “ahead of schedule” but the truth is, I have no idea when the hell babies are supposed to do anything. Do they start walking at 10 months or five years? When are they supposed to hold a spoon and feed themselves? Do they start talking at two, three, or four? Thank God my wife’s around, or Sasha might not get potty trained until she’s a sophomore.

She already holds her own water bottle. She also pulls herself up to a standing position by leveraging a couch, a table, or the hairs of my leg. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do either at only seven months, but again, what do I know?

One thing she hasn’t learned is when things are gross. This morning around 6:45 AM I stumbled into Sasha’s room (Before 7 AM, my main method of transportation is stumbling) to change and feed her. I peeked in her diaper, and of course it was a horror movie. It was the kind where I had to tell myself “Okay, don’t breathe, don’t breathe, you can do this” for the literally ten baby wipes it took to clean, well, everything. Unfortunately, the horror movie had a sequel in her PJs, so those had to be changed too. With the dirty diaper and ten dirty wipes in hand, I lumbered over to the Diaper Genie just to find out it had run out of the plastic refill thingy that holds all the dirty diapers. Knowing that at any second Sasha would smear the poop from her dirty PJs all over herself, I put the diaper and poo-wipes down next to the Diaper Genie and ran back to her to yank her clothes off. 

I put a new diaper on her, and let her go topless for a while. I’ve learned it’s probably not a good idea to decide what Sasha is going to wear for the day, because 1) When Evi wakes up, she rolls her eyes at what I put on Sasha and changes her clothes, which I find insulting, and 2) I probably put her in a shirt and pants that even a blind person could tell do not match.

Relieved that I took care of my paternal responsibility, I rested on the futon we have in her room, and caught up with the news on my iPad. About midway through a pro football-related story, I heard a rustling, so I looked up and saw: Sasha yanked the dirty diaper open and had it and all the poo-wipes all over her.

“OH SHIT!” I yelled, figuratively and literally.

So I had to clean her again, this time bringing her to the bathroom and washing her nearly completely. It’s not a lot of fun trying to clean poop from under a baby’s fingernails.

Another fun example: Two days ago, Sasha was crawling under the dining room table when I saw something odd in her hand. “What’s in your hand, Bubby?” I asked as I reached for it. She kept her hand clenched, but when I fought it open, inside was what looked like a dead millipede. Or, half a dead millipede. Whatever it was, Jesus, wouldn’t the Laws of Grossness tell you not to pick it up? I threw it away.

As she crawled away, I noticed her closed mouth moving in a chewing motion.

Oh no oh no oh no please please tell me it isn’t so.

I jumped at her, grabbed both her cheeks and squeezed her mouth open. For a split second, I saw, well, the other half of the millipede. Then Sasha turned her head away. I grabbed it back. I couldn’t see it. 

“EVI! I THINK SASHA HAS A WORM IN HER MOUTH!!” 

“Well, get it out!”

“I can’t see it now!”

I brought the baby over to my wife, and while I fought to keep Sasha’s mouth open, Evi saw the millipede, reached in, but didn’t get it.

“Damn it!”

Then Sasha made a swallowing motion. 

Evi and I looked at each other. We both had the kind of facial expressions you’d have if your baby just swallowed vermin. “Oh, gross,” we said, nearly in unison. Evi dry heaved.

I looked as Sasha. She was smiling. 

One day she’ll learn what grossness is. It can’t come soon enough.