The Sound of a Diaper

At any other time of the day, a diaper is a soothing sound. The quiet rustle of a downy baby bunny through the papery leaves of the hibiscus. Opening in a hushed stirring of butterfly wings at sunset in the meadow. The fresh little tabs unfastening with the swoosh of the afternoon breeze jostling the wheat on it’s tender dry stalks or the shooshing glide of a soft breaking, bubbly wave across the sand before it’s hasty retreat. The whole process of the diaper change itself no more noticeable than the delicate crinkle of a crispy fall maple leaf as it drifts downward and lands amidst it’s fallen brethren...

At 2:30 AM however, the sodden mass must be exchanged in some deftly choreographed maneuver that will leave baby feeling soothed and refreshed and able to drift softly back to dreamland. I believe I read in one of my baby books somewhere that it should be done “quietly and efficiently” and in the dark, so as to facilitate a smooth transition back to sleep. I laughed then. And now? I laugh even more.

Said diaper now parting in the darkened nursery emanates a sound akin to the crack of a calving glacier or the splitting of a weather worn limb from it’s trunk. Baby’s eyes once closed and drowsy, as he was ever so gently undressed, are now wide with fear and excitement. The handy tabs separate with the earsplitting rip of a bear tearing bark from a hapless oak, not once, but TWICE.

Adrenalin rushes through baby’s tiny little veins as he imagines the source of this auditory onslaught. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. Working “quietly and efficiently” I attempt to affix the stiff, sandpaper tabs to close the diaper, stretching one too far it springs back from my grasp with the hollow snap of a wiffle ball in a slingshot at a sheet of aluminum foil. One attached, now two...NO! Too loose! It’ll never hold. Now the RIIIIIIIIIIP of a thousand tiny little hooks and loops screaming “SHHHHHHHHHH!” as I unfasten and refasten the tab to the diaper which I am now sure is made of that cellophane that they use to wrap Easter baskets with.

No words are spoken, but even in the dim light coming from the nightlight in the other room I can see the wide questioning orbs of my sweet baby who is frozen in a startled position. No doubt an instinct passed on for millions of years to protect our young as they heard prey approaching the nesting area in the night. His arms outstretched and palms pressed down, feet bracing the changing table. The two of us holding our breath. Him wondering what might happen next and me wondering if he’ll sleep again for the next hour.

Diaper now "quietly and efficiently" changed, I gently bundle my little darling and place him carefully into his crib and slowly back out of the room before the shock of the whole experience wears off. Soft little questioning noises are heard, but thankfully nothing more. Now we're both laying in our respective beds, staring at the ceiling, practicing the art of "self soothing". Me with my idea for a first blog post and my darling baby boy? Probably considering holding his water until it's light enough for him to see what's going on.