Thursday, January 09, 2003
"Baddy."
Dale: This is the nickname I've given myself whenever I do something that Madeleine does not like. Such as relieving her of the covertly-acquired stapler or remote control, or taking away the dog-slobbered cracker she wants to eat, or removing the unindentifiable lint/dirt clod/cat food/dog food/Cthuloid Horror from her mouth before she swallows it.
Well, last night I became Super Baddy.
Madeleine has acquired the worst diaper rash of her life. It seems to stem from what appear to be an otherwise solid store brand of diapers we bought last Saturday. Bad idea. Beyond bad. We're talking too-few-lifeboats-on-the-Titanic-bad. Maginot Line-bad. Electing-Jimmy Carter-bad. As of yesterday evening, her backside was a hellish, raw shade of red. Heather let her go around without pants, as long as a towel was nearby. It even hurt for Maddie to sit.
Wednesdays are Heather's night to give baths, and fortunately, Maddie suffered no discomfort from this. Then came the moment we'd been dreading: time to put her diaper on. Guess who had the job of making sure Maddie didn't move or kick too much?
Wailing, of course, and painful cries as Mommy applied the Balmex. Worst was the look of hurt betrayal. At that point I had one of those moments where I saw the little girl, not the toddler. This time, it wasn't a good feeling. The diaper went on, followed by the onesie and her sleeper. She blinked away her tears, and clung to Mommy. Mommy gently suggested that Maddie "give daddy a hug."
Response? An angry/hurt shriek that barked "NO!" better than any drill instructor. Mommy tried again. Same refusal, coupled with the hurt betrayal look. Again, the little girl appeared. Defeated, I left. A couple of minutes later, Heather suggested I bring in an Elmo object--any would do--or a slice of cheese (our child is the opposite of lactose intolerant). I dug a stuffed toy out, and walked in, eager to appease.
"Eh-mo!" A smile, and eager hands reached out. Even a smile for daddy. Pleased with that success, I decided to get the cheese, too.
"Cheese?" I asked.
"Tseez!" she said, with smiling enthusiasm.
I ran to the fridge, and returned with a slice. "Eh-mo" vanished off the radar. The big, laughing smile this time, as more eager hands reached for the processed American. It's Tseez Time! Shortly thereafter, it became dinner theatre as I did one of my "Goofy Daddy Dances™" to her giggling approval.
What diaper rash? What Balmex? All is forgiven.
I can only hope that the same thing works when she reaches age 12.
Dale: This is the nickname I've given myself whenever I do something that Madeleine does not like. Such as relieving her of the covertly-acquired stapler or remote control, or taking away the dog-slobbered cracker she wants to eat, or removing the unindentifiable lint/dirt clod/cat food/dog food/Cthuloid Horror from her mouth before she swallows it.
Well, last night I became Super Baddy.
Madeleine has acquired the worst diaper rash of her life. It seems to stem from what appear to be an otherwise solid store brand of diapers we bought last Saturday. Bad idea. Beyond bad. We're talking too-few-lifeboats-on-the-Titanic-bad. Maginot Line-bad. Electing-Jimmy Carter-bad. As of yesterday evening, her backside was a hellish, raw shade of red. Heather let her go around without pants, as long as a towel was nearby. It even hurt for Maddie to sit.
Wednesdays are Heather's night to give baths, and fortunately, Maddie suffered no discomfort from this. Then came the moment we'd been dreading: time to put her diaper on. Guess who had the job of making sure Maddie didn't move or kick too much?
Wailing, of course, and painful cries as Mommy applied the Balmex. Worst was the look of hurt betrayal. At that point I had one of those moments where I saw the little girl, not the toddler. This time, it wasn't a good feeling. The diaper went on, followed by the onesie and her sleeper. She blinked away her tears, and clung to Mommy. Mommy gently suggested that Maddie "give daddy a hug."
Response? An angry/hurt shriek that barked "NO!" better than any drill instructor. Mommy tried again. Same refusal, coupled with the hurt betrayal look. Again, the little girl appeared. Defeated, I left. A couple of minutes later, Heather suggested I bring in an Elmo object--any would do--or a slice of cheese (our child is the opposite of lactose intolerant). I dug a stuffed toy out, and walked in, eager to appease.
"Eh-mo!" A smile, and eager hands reached out. Even a smile for daddy. Pleased with that success, I decided to get the cheese, too.
"Cheese?" I asked.
"Tseez!" she said, with smiling enthusiasm.
I ran to the fridge, and returned with a slice. "Eh-mo" vanished off the radar. The big, laughing smile this time, as more eager hands reached for the processed American. It's Tseez Time! Shortly thereafter, it became dinner theatre as I did one of my "Goofy Daddy Dances™" to her giggling approval.
What diaper rash? What Balmex? All is forgiven.
I can only hope that the same thing works when she reaches age 12.
