I Can't Take the Smell (Dew Over)

His nostrils flair in disgust and sounds begin escaping his throat in bursts that can only be compared to a cat working on a particularly ornery hairball. As his eyes begin to water and his groans reach operatic peaks, I stop staring at him in amazement to look down at our son. There he is, almost three months old and the epitome of perfection. All chubby glowing skin and big adoring eyes staring at his daddy as the man he will emulate above all others succumbs to dry wretches over him.

"Are you kidding me?" My voice is colored with it's own shades of disgust. I have seen this man take a dirty dish out of the sink and serve up lunch on it without even blinking.  In fact, I have witnessed him commit so many atrocities in culinary experimentation I seriously considered sending him on Fear Factor, knowing he would be a sure thing. I am shocked and taken aback at his theatrical presentation of Man Tries To Survive Changing A Diaper in our living room.

"I can't take the smell…….I think I'm allergic or something, it's so bad" His voice is rising to near hysterical pitches while he frantically pulls wipe after wipe out of the handy dispenser. With one hand he delicately holds Thatcher's feet up and with his fingertips clutching the moist wipe barely dabs at the tiny baby buns in front of him before tossing the wipe in a bag that must already hold 15, only to grab another all the while holding his head as far away as possible from ground zero.

"You're telling me there is something physically wrong with you that makes it impossible for you to change a poopy diaper?" I don't even bother to disguise my incredulous snort. "Just wait 'til he starts eating solids."

I know what he's doing. He wants me to jump in and do it. He's hoping if he's terrible enough at this I will take over. Unfortunately for him this is my second baby. I'm not as insanely over-protective of this one. I know he will not only survive a poorly changed diaper, but perhaps even be better for it. As the final act reaches it's conclusion and little Thatch is dry and clean. I see Tim tenderly cradle our son to his chest murmuring "all done".

I know they will both be better for it.