Lesbian Dad

One small squirt for boy, one giant squirt for parentkind


Yes. That means what you think it means.

Those fortunate readers who have not slogged through upwards of 5,000 diaper changes — ha! ya think I’m exaggerating! no, I AM ACTUALLY UNDERESTIMATING, I COUNTED — might think the above is merely an unremarkable, if slightly overshare-y image of somebody’s toilet. But that’s where you’d be sadly mistaken, my friend. The above is an image of victory! Triumph over recalcitrance! The onward march of youth toward their destiny, eventually fishing Mama and Baba out of the bowl of despair!

For months, nay, years, I would whimper quietly as I pulled the package of organic, free-range, fairly unbiodegradable diapers from the grocery store cart and placed it up onto the checkout counter. The larger the size on the diaper — 3, then 4, then 5, and then, finally and most humiliatingly, the dread 6 (and for you diaper-ignorami, they just don’t get any bigger than 6: next stop, Depends™ undergarments) — the more pitious my sotto voce whimpering. It got to the point where the clerks simply could not meet my eyes. I didn’t blame them.

The beloved and I swap grocery store runs weekly with our co-housing in-laws, and whenever I would write in the word “diapers” on the list for them, I would follow it with a little sad face. 🙁 We didn’t talk about it.

But today! Today, I strode into our neighborhood grocer’s, head held high, baseball cap cocked at a jaunty angle, just so, and I traipsed up and down those narrow aisles, and I hummed as I packed my cart full of all manner of items, NOT ONE OF WHICH WAS A PACKAGE OF DIAPERS! Ha! Ha ha!

You will forgive me the heady delerium.

I leave you now with a wee (!) musical selection, here. O hell, lemme just paste it:

[Note: youngsters ignorant of musical history and a bit impatient, give this quaint ditty at least 30 seconds. Rest of youse: turn yer monitors up to 10.]

back up that-away
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