OH MY MY

Dear Spike:

There was a time, before you were born, that I pledged never to talk about my children’s bodily functions as if I were discussing presidential politics, the Major League Soccer standings or a hot stock tip.

It took me less than a week, after you were born, to nullify that promise.

In my defense, we’ve spent the past week swimming in your diapers. Following one particularly astonishing diaper-changing incident, your mother and I actually got out a tape measure to record the distance that your poop flew (60 inches — that’s more than three times as far as you are long.) And hey, from a purely scientific point of view, the stuff that has been coming out of your body really has been quite fascinating.

But none of that justifies the utter hypocrisy and lack of social grace your father demonstrated the other day when my friend Sheena came to visit us (well, to visit you, anyway.)

We’d made it through the obligatory “how the doctors stormed Spike’s mom’s castle” explanation. Though graphic — even nauseating for those with weak stomachs — there is, in fact, an exceptional interest in this subject, particularly on the part of women who are still contemplating whether they want to experience the so-called “miracle” of birth.

Those details out of the way, we’d chatted about work at the newspaper; about your mother’s new job; about how Utah has once again distinguished itself by spending less on education than any other state in the union; and about Sheena’s new house, just a few blocks away.

And at some point, I guess I just ran out of other interesting things to say.

“Your daughter is beautiful,” Sheena said.

“Thanks,” I said. “You know, you’d be amazed at all the different colors of poop she makes.”

And just like that, in 15 little words, I was the parent I’d professed I’d never be.

I might as well have bought a giant Sports Utility Vehicle, an enormous house in the suburbs and a trampoline for the backyard. I might as well have sent away for the entire ten-thousand video disc edition of Baby Einstein. I might as well have dropped everything I was doing to make an emergency shopping spree at Baby Gap.

Oh my my. Oh Hell yes. I was that parent: The one who talks about his daughter’s poop.

At just 10 days old, you’ve already made me a better person in so many different ways.

This just doesn’t happen to be one of them.

Love,
dad