The main thing which has baffled me now for the best part of three years, is not the sleep patterns, the irrational behavior of the Jam-Eater or how long it takes for me to to get her attention. No…It’s Baby Wipes. My personal ‘Daddy Everest’ is Baby Wipes.
Firstly, I hate the texture of them. I used to work, many many moons ago, as a pot washer in a local pub. I would hate seeing plates piled high with used Baby Wipes on them, reeking of ice cream, vomit and sometimes worse. Secondly, the smell is rancid. Its not so bad when it is just a baby wipe, but when it has served its purpose, it is just plain awful. It is like following a grown man into the toilet who has just had a ‘big job’ and he has tried to mask the smell with a gallon of air freshener.
I am a ‘Ten Wipe Trevor’, there you go, I have confessed. Honestly, how my Wife manages to clean our little girls shitty arse fresh out of the nappy with just the one baby wipe folded into the size of a postage stamp, I will never know. Now, I thought this was just me, apparently not. After discussion with other Dad’s I have found it to be an official problem and apparently it’s a gender thing.
Flo is nearly three now and I still deem it necessary to pull my t-shirt over my mouth for a particularly vulgar poo and to also stock pile a good ten wipes out of the packet in preparation for the cleaning onslaught. I love the relief when your expecting to have to effectively muck out a stable, but there has only been a little wee. Good Times. This is a feeling on par with opening a biscuit tin to expect only digestives, but actually there is a beautiful bourbon biscuit in there. The unbridled joy.
Where does the female half of the species learn this unprecedented skill? Was there an open day or meeting I missed where there were a dozen prosthetic backsides all laid out in a row and covered with Nutella. I like to imagine a stern lady barking out wiping orders to an ensemble of new mothers all learning the skill that us Dad’s envy.
‘Wipe, Wipe, fold and Wipe’ she barks out in a rhythmic fashion.
Sorry, I digress.
Even though I manage to clean it up sometimes with a minimal of three wipes (still a personal record to this day) I still end up ,on occasion, getting to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and wind up managing to find toddler shit on my knuckles. I waive my fist to the sky and curse the wiping gods.
The struggle is real men, if any women are reading this and want to offer any advice, or alternatively, a place in the aforementioned ‘Shitty Arse Wiping Academy for Women’ then I would be much obliged.
If any men read this then…..Keep on wiping, be strong and don’t be a ‘Ten Wipe Trevor’