What do you think?
The grandfather clock downstairs struck two as the wails of our six-month-old daughter, Magnolia, shattered the late-night silence like a siren in the fog. It wasn’t the first time tonight, and I wagered it wouldn’t be the last. Beside me, Dylan groaned, his body a reluctant wave rising from the sea of our bed sheets.
I lay there, feigning sleep, my cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes slitted just enough to see. I knew what was coming—Dylan’s nightly battle with the diaper, an event as predictable as it was comedic.
There he stood, all six feet of sleep-deprived fatherhood, clad in plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that had seen better days. With a heavy sigh, he shuffled toward Magnolia’s room, his steps slow, like a man walking the plank. I couldn’t help it—I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door to watch.
Magnolia was in full throttle, her little arms flailing, her face the color of a ripe tomato. Dylan approached the crib with the caution of a bomb technician. “Hey, sweet pea, daddy’s here,” he cooed, his voice a mix of desperation and feigned enthusiasm.
Lifting her from the crib, he balanced Magnolia on his hip, trying to soothe her as he laid out the changing supplies with his free hand. The changing table, a site of many past battles, was cluttered with wipes, powder, and a stack of diapers that looked more like a deflated skyscraper.
“Okay, let’s get this over with,” he muttered to himself as he laid Magnolia down. Her legs kicked, tiny toes wiggling like she was conducting an orchestra. Dylan’s face contorted into a mask of exaggerated bravery as he pulled at the sticky tabs of the soiled diaper.
The air filled with the unmistakable scent of a day’s worth of baby food and formula. Dylan’s reaction was instantaneous—his nose wrinkled, and he made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan. “Oh, Magnolia, what do they feed you? Cement?”
He reached for a wipe, and that’s when the real show began. Magnolia, perhaps sensing her father’s distress, chose that moment to execute a perfect roll, nearly dodging the diaper beneath her. Dylan, quick for a man usually more coordinated in daylight, caught her just in time, his hands juggling baby and diaper like a novice circus performer.
“Nooo, no rolling. We do not roll on the poop deck, young lady,” he admonished, as if reasoning with a sailor rather than a baby.
Magnolia responded with a bubbly giggle, clearly enjoying the routine. Every time Dylan tried to secure the new diaper, she twisted, her chubby legs kicking up a storm. “Babe, work with me here,” Dylan pleaded, his voice tinged with mock despair.
From my vantage point, hidden by the darkness of the hallway, I stifled a laugh. There he was, my big, strong husband, defeated by a six-month-old in a battle of wits and agility.
Finally, with the dexterity of a man who had been through the trenches of parenthood, Dylan managed to fasten the diaper. He held it out triumphantly for a moment before realizing he had put it on backwards. “Oh, come on!” he exclaimed, staring at the diaper as if it had personally offended him.
With a deep breath, he started over, this time securing the diaper correctly. He lifted Magnolia up and held her close, his face softening as she placed her tiny hand on his cheek. “There, all done. Daddy wins this round,” he declared, a proud smile spreading across his face despite the ordeal.
Dylan didn’t notice me as he rocked Magnolia gently, whispering a lullaby that was more off-key than soothing. Watching them, my heart swelled with love—not just for the adorable baby girl who had changed our lives, but for the man who would go through the gross, the uncomfortable, and the downright hilarious for her.
Silently, I retreated to our bedroom, a grin plastered on my face. I slipped back under the covers, my smile lingering as I listened to the soft creaks of the rocking chair and Dylan’s tender, tuneless lullaby.
