Before my son could smile, we put him in a sink. He splashed so seriously, we thought, “Perhaps he is not a baby. Perhaps he is a military device.” His arms and legs swung and kicked with precision. If he were assigned to create a diversion, this kid would get it done with only his bare hands and a little water.
When a neighbor in our inner city apartment complex invited us and another mommy-son pair to “swim” in a wading pool stuffed on her apartment balcony, I said yes. Because that’s what mothers do, right? Don’t you have pictures of yourself in a diaper, on a balcony, in a wading pool, with your Mom?
This may sound like a bad idea, but it got worse when I decided, “Ahh, who needs swim-diapers.”
The neighbors and their babies sat almost lifeless in the shallow, microscopic, pool.
My son crawled in circles with precision, like a torpedo with arms. For a moment, I thought, “These other babies are so lucky to play with my son, baby USS Constitution.”
And then he pooped.
How does one discretely throw buckets and buckets of poo water over a balcony?
I can tell you from experience, one does not.
I don’t know when I’ll be a better person. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that after a diaper absorbs 2/3 of the pool’s water, it can’t absorb anything else. I did note the ant-like quality of my son’s over-saturated diaper - more like a hind segment. But the only thought to emerge from that observation was, “Hah, that’s funny.” Never did it occur to me that my son was about to become the 11-month-old version of Chernobyl.
From the look on my son’s face, it was clear. Mission accomplished. Baby special agents are so tricky these days. I just hope his next commissioned assignment doesn't involve so much Clorox.