| Michael Merschel: Straight poop on parenting 04/11/2001 By / The Dallas Morning News A lot of young couples I know are in a very special "condition." You know what I mean. They gaze at each other with goofy smiles. The women pat their expanding tummies and laugh, and the men speak with a swagger or look a little dazed or both.
That's right: A lot of young couples I know are drunk.
No, of course they aren't. They're expecting. Babies. And as a proud father of two girls, one of whom arrived just months ago, I am often called upon to offer advice to these parents-to-be.
Actually, nobody really calls for my opinion. I just inflict it on them. Because what is pregnancy about except the joy of having total strangers offer you advice?
Anyhow, as I said, I'm a proud father of two, and that means that one or two people who haven't seen me at home trying to corral a 3-year-old into her pajamas ("I said NOW. Did you hear me? NOW. I'm going to say it one more time, and count to three, and say NOW again and this time you will hear me because I will mean it! COME BACK HERE!") assume I might have learned a thing or two about parenting.
And I have learned one important thing – aside from the fact that it is better if Mom tries to put the 3-year-old into her pajamas.
Are you ready? Here it is:
Start with the bottom snap and work your way up.
I can hear all the nonparents out there scratching their heads and thinking, "No wonder nobody asks his opinion."
But soon, expectant parents, you will understand. It will happen about 3:30 a.m. the day after you and your bundle of joy have come home from the hospital, and you have just finished cleaning up your first poop explosion (one of the first skills you will acquire is the ability to use the word "poop" in everyday conversation without thinking twice) and are trying to dress your little bundle of joy.
And you figure out the diaper OK (cartoon side out, squishy side in) and then start trying to find the right snaps for the undershirt, which are hidden somewhere near those two wildly flailing baby legs.
And then you have the nightie, the sweet pink one that Aunt Flo sent that looked so cute in the box, but now you realize it has six snaps and a zipper and a strange elastic thing around the feet.
Meanwhile it is getting on 5 a.m. and the baby is turning blue from the cold and you think you have everything on correctly so you pick her up to put her back in the crib and she looks like she was dressed in something from the bottom of the clothes hamper.
And then she poops again, so you need to start all over.
And then you will say, "Why didn't I finish that guy's column? Maybe he wasn't an idiot after all!"
Unless you are a woman, in which case you know what my wife knows: I am an idiot. At least about baby clothes. Because when I expressed my frustration to said wife – my educated, articulate, understanding wife – her reply was, "Hmm. It must be a girl thing."
Whatever, it's sure not a guy thing. At least, not for this guy. I mean, it's not a question of being mechanically inclined. I can change the oil on a Plymouth and program the clock on my VCR. But that is because those devices are logical. Consistent. Immobile. (Especially that old Plymouth, but I digress.)
Baby clothes, on the other hand, make no sense. Some have snaps that go up the middle. Some have snaps that go across the middle. Some have both. Some have neither.
And it's not as though the baby is designed to be dressed, either. For the uninitiated, think of what it is like to play "dress-up" with a doll. (Guys: G.I. Joe counts.) It is like that, except the doll is alive and squishy like a water balloon and fragile like a Fabergé egg and screaming like a hell-spawned cat trapped in a dog pound and is absolutely nothing like a doll, except that if you leave it outside in the yard someone will take it away from you and you will be in trouble.
I have tried to convince my wife that the ideal baby outfit would just be simple swaddling cloths. Easy on. Easy off. No snaps. And they were good enough for our Lord, which means they are possibly good enough for my daughter.
My wife just gives me a kind, blank smile, which means, "Deal with it."
And I do. I start with the bottom snap. I work my way up. Often, my baby ends up looking fine.
If you have better advice, I'd be happy to sit down and listen. Just as soon as I get the 3-year-old into her pajamas.
Michael Merschel is a copy editor at The Dallas Morning News.
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