The boy is kicking now.
He kicks when he’s happy. Which is OK.
He kicks when he’s angry. Which is not.
Like most trends or developments one’s child goes through, I couldn’t tell you when it began only that it’s incrementally become part of his repertoire for tantrums and expressions of glee alike.
The first time I noticed this — and if you like stories about men getting kicked in the groin, you’re in for a treat — I was changing his diaper.
Because the boy is now 5’6”, we can’t use his changing table anymore. (Seriously, he’s getting particularly tall. Doc says he’s in the 90th percentile). So we use the floor for diaper changes.
It’s actually not just the floor. He lies on his back atop a sprawling, pillowy comforter we lay down for the process.
But, model of consistency that he is, the boy dislikes getting his diaper changed no matter where he is. Sometimes he throws a full on fit. Other times it’s a minor inconvenience that he tolerates.
|Yes, this picture has appeared on this blog — three times now.|
What that says about me, I'll leave to you to decide.
So, I’m crouched on my knees, with his feet extended toward my lap. His diaper is off, I’ve just reached for the wipes and he decides he’s had enough.
He starts squirming to get away but, because he’s blessed his father’s speed and agility, he’s going nowhere. So, I get him back to where he was. But he wasn’t done.
No sir. I finish with the wipes and I’m ready to put on the diaper, and he decides to start kicking his long legs.
In fairness to the boy, he wasn’t kicking hard. It was more leg lifts and then letting gravity do the work of bringing them forward and to the ground.
Nonetheless, he’s wailing, red faced, extremely upset and flailing his legs and, for some reason, I’m the only guy on Earth who missed the memo that you don’t try to keep putting on the diaper when all this is happening.
Undaunted by reality, I soldiered on.
Before I knew it, I timed one of his rotations and deftly slid the diaper under him.
Next, I managed to untether the left adhesive strip and connect it to the front portion of the diaper.
Halfway there. The diaper is almost on.
Next, the boy rolled to his left, leaving me the perfect opening to grasp the right adhesive strip.
Next, I moved to fasten the strip and — next — the boy’s leg kicked forward with exquisite precision.
There was a brilliant, blinding flash, during which I felt suspended in nothingness. It was just a fraction of a second I’m sure, but it was grimly familiar and an assurance that what was coming next wasn’t good.
And it wasn’t. Sensory deprivation faded and searing reality returned. There’s the pain, sure. But what most guys don’t remark upon is the nausea that kicks in.
Outside of all this, I’m confident I let out a yelp (and/or girlish shriek) that might serve as the boy’s first memory of his father.
He must have sensed the enormity of the moment — or he was responding to abject mess of a human being lying at his feet because suddenly, it was silent.
There was no kicking, no wailing, no rolling and crying.
So, Moms, the lesson here is that if you’re looking for a surefire way to get your kid to stop crying, just kick your husband in the nuts.
As for the guys, the lesson is to — once again — never, ever do what I do.
EDITOR'S NOTE: The picture from the Simpsons isn't the only repeat here. Indeed this is the second "man-getting-hit" blog I've done. As long as it keeps happening, and as long as kicks to the groin are funny, these will be appearing. God willing they'll continue to be infrequent.