By Frank Lowe
Originally published on Advocate.com February 26 2014 11:37 AM ET
All the nightmare stories that you have heard about what happens when a baby has their first real poop are absolutely true. It is actually called meconium, and feel free to read further about it here. It’s black, tar-like, and straight from a horror film. Luckily for me, I had nothing to do with our son’s first poop, due to some brilliant timing.
Picture it — the first day we were in the hospital after our son was born. The accommodations were probably akin to a Sochi hotel, and we were running on zero sleep. In between moments of feeling shock, we felt the tender moments of becoming first-time parents. We did our proper studying and somewhat knew what to expect when having an infant. The nurses were overly helpful in teaching us all of the basics — how to change diapers, bathe him, and give him a bottle. I became rather deft at changing diapers and found everything to be quite easy. Those were pee-pee diapers.
At some point, I decided to take a shower because I smelled like Bigfoot. The shower looked like something you would find on a boat — very bizarre and spare. I left our little one in the care of my spouse and soon the tepid water was rushing over me. About five minutes in, I heard a panicked voice yell my name. “Frank!” (I didn’t answer). “Frank!” (I still didn’t answer). “FRAAAAAAANK!” It hit me that I am now a dad and oh my God this could have something to do with our baby. “WHAT?” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “HE JUST POOPED, WHAT DO I DO?” And in that moment, I realized that I had dodged the ultimate bullet.
I exited the shower and shouted back to him to “JUST CHANGE HIM, IT WILL BE OK.” “But what do I dooooooooo?” he kept asking. I screamed at him to just change him, and if it became rocket science, call a nurse for assistance. I knew that if I waited this one out, I wouldn’t have to do shit. Literally. After I left the bathroom, I saw my spouse was as white as a ghost and still cleaning up our son. It looked like a murder scene. I jumped in and helped, wondering how in the hell poop found its way into the strangest of places. The best part was that our precious little son maintained the hugest smile on his face, as though he thought, Look what you got yourselves into, Daddies. In the end, I caved and called a nurse for damage control, and from that day forward I was on permanent poop duty.
FRANK LOWE is The Advocate’s parenting writer. Follow Frank on Twitter @GayAtHomeDad and on Instagram at gayathomedad.