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Written by Jeff Stimpson
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Alex doesn't always drift peacefully off after we bolt him into his bedroom for the night.
He's honed many tactics for getting us to open the door. First and
favorite seems to be rattling the doorknob and screeching. We wish he'd
screech "Mommy!" or "Daddy!" instead of his usual impersonation of a
trapped parrot, but he does get me or Jill off the couch and to his
door, which I wrench open and say, in tones that remind me of every
wise dad I've ever known, "Bed! Put your head down! Now!" Plus I point
my finger.
Sometimes Alex also takes advantage of Ned hopping up and down in the
crib - Ned tickled with his brother's late show -- to fly from his bed,
peel around two corners and down our bedroom hall, and dive onto our
pillows. Last night, he even drew our sheets up over himself and
burrowed into our blankets, thinking, I guess, that it might not occur
to me to wonder where Alex had gone. Last night, Alex also asked for a
book: "Ham!" he said. "Ham!", meaning Green Eggs and Ham. When I handed
it to him, he said, "Sam - I - Am!"
Alex's ultimate weapon to forestall bedtime makes me proud. He bounces
on his mattress, flattens himself, goes all taut and says "Diapee!"
I have to check the diaper for the same reason a bus has to stop at all
railroad tracks. Up comes one flap, up comes the other, and I lift and
peer in the dim light in a maneuver that would have made me retch in
the not-so-distant past. Now, all that comes up is my indignation at
finding the diaper dry and spotless.
"Alex, there is nothing wrong with your diapee. Go to sleep!" Plus I point.
"Die - PEE," says Alex. When did I start calling them "diapees," too?
Alex is four. Most 4-year-olds don't wear diapers, but Alex does. He
may wear them longer than Ned, who already wears the same size and has
already expressed an interest in making it rain in the bathroom. Our
babysitter is working with Alex on this, though.
Alex will usually tell us when a diaper is falling off, but he usually
doesn't tell us when he needs a change. Once I peeked and discovered he
needed a change while in the office of his developmental pediatrician.
"That doesn't bother him when he needs a change?" the doctor asked. No,
I admitted. She made a mark on her clipboard. I wish it bothered him,
but it doesn't yet.
Sometimes in those moments of his pre-sleep wildness, I wonder if Alex
will ever be out of diapers, ever deprived of the instrument of this
tactic to stave off bedtime. I don't know what excuse he's going to
reach for at 8:30 every night once he's out of diapers. I look forward
to finding out, even as we've finally straightened out Medicaid diaper
deliveries.
Medicaid diapers are free, unless you count the emotions involved in
having a 4-year-old need them. Every couple of months we get two
mammoth cartons of what a social worker once described as "better than
nothing" diapers. They have the sticky tabs, not the Velcro ones of the
CVS brand. The CVS ones are $13.50 for a 48-pack. We're trying to get
reimbursement for all those months we bought diapers for Alex. The
containment factor on the Medicaid diapers rivals Chernobyl - Ned can
saturate one in about 20 minutes. Those on Alex last longer, but we
still use a CVS diaper on him for overnight.
"Diapee," says Alex. "DiaPEE."
Here I am on yet another night, in the dim light, lullabies crooning
impotently on the tape machine, Ned making the springs of his crib go
nuts, my dinner cooling in the other room in front of the "Enterprise"
episode which I am not able to watch. Alex is flat on his bed and
trying to hold back the giggles. He feels taut with excitement.
"Alex," I say, pulling down his pajama bottoms and peeling away the straps, "there is nothing wrong with your oh-"
There in the dim light is a deeper darkness. We all know what I saw. I thought it wise not to point my finger.
Bio: Jeff Stimpson's articles and essays can be found on his website at jeffslife.net Jeff has also written a book entitled: Alex: The Fathering Of A Preemie.
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