The Immaculate Receptacle

Yes, I'm talking about the Diaper Genie II we have. A whole blog post to talk about a poop holder? In essence, again, yes. If you're not a parent, then you probably aren't sure what a Diaper Genie is, but you've probably inferred by now.

Beep beep beep: this just in. Diapers are stink. Not stinky; they are the definition of putrid and where the smell that gets in your throat comes from.  I have been blessed with a beautiful family and new baby girl (obviously mother's looks).  But damn. She's only eating/drinking milk! And if it wasn't for that little white container that seals the lid from the flames of seedy nostril poison, this would be tough.

Nicole and I have a bit of a routine, and it works out pretty well. At night we take turns getting up and feeding/changing Faith (except last night I cheated and got five consecutive hours of sleep - amazing I know). Not only do we have to run downstairs to the aforementioned receptacle in the middle of the night, but by the time we make it back upstairs, Faith has blessed us again.

I think I have this down (non-parents beware): first she poops, smiles, and fusses. Then, we head to the changing table. I let her sit for a couple of minutes, because sometimes she surprises us. Next, I change her and place the A-bomb in the container (which should have a toxic symbol-logo-thing on it) and turn back just in time to see more fun. I change her again, cleaning the changing table appropriately. *Quick side-note: this is totally the story I will tell at her wedding in 30 years :-)

Wouldn't you know it - I had to pause here for a diaper.

To finish my (already long) story: it's not uncommon for Nicole and I to go through three diapers in one changing. And because of this, we have learned to let her sit for a solid (pun somewhat intended) five minutes (and no it's not mean or wrong) after she smiles coyly waiting for her moment to squirm.

Baby and Mom are doing great. Pictures are still flowing on Facebook, and Dad is slowing learning the intricacies that is the bull-ride of parenting. I mean, come on, you only get eight seconds or you're in a lot of sh*t.


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