Sunday, May 16, 2004

Blow it dry

I will preface this post with a warning and an apology. Like many new parents, my daily intellectual concerns have recently drastically changed. At one time I had an interest in philosophy, computers, science and I vaguely remember enjoying mythology and medieval English literature, but now I spend most of my time thinking about things like poopy diapers.

Many of my friends will eagerly point out that I was already preoccupied with poop before Ruby’s arrival, and while I will agree that I have always considered myself a scatological humor aficionado, I am forced to admit that this new fascination of mine is less funny in an empirical sense than the occasional “Would you please excuse me, I’m going to go drop the kids off at the pool” or “Hey Leah, I was just in the bathroom for about twenty minutes, and I think you may have left a $20 bill in there; you better go see,” comments. Everybody loves dick and fart jokes right?

Not everyone loves stories about baby feces, so if you must stop reading here, I will understand. Consider yourself lucky! If I had run into you on the street and started to tell you about this, you would have had to politely listen as I went on and on, and I would have continued to tell you about it, even after I noticed that you were anxiously glancing at your watch and shuffling your feet in discomfort. Proceed at your own risk.

I think that parents are hardwired to freak out when their baby cries. I will do anything to figure out what Ruby is screaming about, and if possible, fix it.

She doesn’t speak English, so I’m only guessing here, but I’m pretty sure that Ruby’s main challenge and focal point during these last two months has almost completely revolved around her ability to poop or her lack there of. The only possible exception has been her desire to eat, and really, milk is just proto-poop, right? I wish that I could say with confidence that her occasional beautiful smile is a pleasant reaction to her father’s voice, but more often than not, it precedes a seemingly satisfying expulsion of some sort. I used to think that Freud’s assertion that infants are anally fixated was ridiculous, but I am now prepared to reevaluate my opinion with regards to that part of his theory.

I understand that Ruby needs to spend some time training her new body to perfect these important functions, but I am continually amazed at how much time Ani and I have had to spend thinking about them. “Why are you crying Ruby? Are you trying to Poop? Are you eating enough? Did the poop hurt your butt? Please stop CRYING!”

At first we had to count the number of times she crapped, to make sure she was eating enough. We had several conversations that ran something like, “Are you sure that six times a day isn’t enough? Jeez Ruby, trust me, once in the morning after your coffee is a much more efficient way to handle it.” Then we were supposed to make sure that its consistency was right: “Is it yellow and seedy?”
“What the hell did you just say?”
“It’s supposed to be seedy.”
“How in the f&%$ does digested milk get seedy?”
And then we were forced to look very closely at our daughter’s butt. “Do you think it looks red; I mean too red?”
“Nah… It’s probably supposed to be like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aw crap. It does look pretty bad huh?”

Then after calling the doctor and having to describe exactly how red and irritated Ruby’s butt was, we were instructed to buy some stuff, dissolve it in water, soak a rag in it and then put it next to her butt for a specified period of time. Bear with me. The really weird part is coming up, and this is necessary background information. After this weird washcloth soaking, we were instructed to blow-dry her butt. At first, it seemed a reasonable enough course of action. Her butt was irritated because it was wet, so we needed to dry it. Every time we changed her diaper, we’d put the blow dryer on it’s coolest setting and point it at the bull’s-eye. Strangely, the piercing screams and heart breaking tears would instantly stop, and a sublime look of contentment would instantly appear on my daughter’s face. She puts her legs up a little higher in the air so that a larger butt surface area can get that gust of warm dry air. What a relief it is to see the most beautiful girl in the world happy again. But at what cost?

Now every time she cries, I do everything that I can to calm her down: change positions, chairs, put her over my shoulder and pat her back, sing to her, but in the end (no pun intended), I usually wind up changing her diaper whether it needs it or not, just so I can have that moment of peace with a blow dryer.

I imagine myself in the near future, so dependent on this path to serenity that while at a fancy dinner party where she gets upset, I would just reassure everyone present that everything was ok and ask for an AC outlet. Whipping the pistol shaped pacifier out, and clearing my dinner place setting, I’d just tear off Ruby’s pants and go to work, smiling and nodding calmly in response to the horror of my dining companions.

Then I find myself wondering, even in private, at what age does this become inappropriate? I know of people who have nursed their children for a socially uncomfortable number of years; there’s nothing quite as disconcerting as a five-year old at his mother’s breast. That’s how serial killers are made. What if Ruby demands to have her butt blown dry at three, five, or thirteen years of age? What sort of horrible damage am I doing to her future psyche? I don’t want her to link butt blow-drying to peace and happiness. What kind of adult demented behavior and personality flaws are linked to childhood butt drying? I don’t want to end up in some family counselor’s office when I’m sixty rehashing the negative effects of my evaporative child rearing (again, no pun intended). Maybe I should just let it air dry?

I’d love to write more, but my daughter is crying, and I need to change her.