David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published June 17, 2003

Shock and Awe in diapers

As I celebrated my third Father's Day on Sunday, I made a startling discovery. I have kids.

It's a lot different than when I had a kid, but no one says that much, do they? Parents don't usually talk about "a kid" -- when parents who have one child talk about their offspring, they tend to refer to them by name. I did it, too. "Anna's eating solid food now." "Anna took her first steps today." "Anna likes to put worms in her hair." Sometimes she was referred to as "my daughter," but more often than not I used her name.

However, since Phil came into the picture a little more than five months ago, I've noticed that he and her sister have formed a coalition of sorts. These two very separate and individual people have merged into The Kids, and The Kids are not to be trifled with.

Their planning and execution is amazing. Anna has a considerable but limited vocabulary, and Phil can communicate with only facial expressions and babbling, but despite these constraints they're able to coordinate their efforts with the expertise and precision of a special-ops strike force -- Shock and Awe in diapers.

Here's an example of a recent S&A engagement. It's 4:52 a.m. and baby Phil is crying. Maybe he's hungry, maybe he needs a diaper, maybe he just needs a pat on the back. Whatever it is, either the wife or I must get out of bed and assess the situation. Like a slow-witted cow being led to the stun gun, I shuffle down the hall.

The first order of business is the sniff and feel test. If my nose discerns a foul stench or my hand feels the telltale squish of a leaky diaper, my task is clear. Phil passes the test, so my next counterattack is to give him a bottle. I put his pacifier in his mouth so as not to wake his co-conspirator sleeping just a few feet away in the next room, and then I lope to the kitchen for three scoops of powdered formula and six ounces of tap water, lovingly shaken into a delightfully frothy concoction.

Upon returning to his room, I discover that Phil has spit out his pacifier and is wide awake, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He takes a 20-minute pull on the bottle, eyes darting from shadow to shadow in his room. After the bottle, it's clear he has no interest in revisiting the Land of Nod. I put him down anyway, hoping that he'll quietly coo and babble for a few minutes and go back to sleep.

Keep dreaming -- me, not him. It's a quarter after 5, and he's up and up for good, or at least until his nap. Meanwhile the co-conspirator slumbers peacefully in the next room, waiting for her cue.

When he's awake there's no sense in fighting it. If he's up, I'm up. It's party time. In an effort to preserve the peace and guarantee more sleep for the wife and toddler, Phil and I adjourn to the basement so his squeals and yelps won't disturb those blissfully unaware. After 30 minutes of his playing with chew toys and mobiles, I'm now wide awake myself. I'm not a good napper. When I'm up, I'm up for the duration, never again to lay my head upon my pillow until the day is done.

Some days start earlier than others. It was evident that this day started at 4:52.

After a couple of hours, a beautiful sunrise and an early-morning infomercial, he's finally beginning to show signs. He's back asleep by 7:30. I, however, am fully awake and ready to get into the day. A mid-morning catnap isn't an option anymore.

So I return to the basement hoping to catch SportsCenter, already in progress. Just as I click on the TV, flip to Channel 16 and settle into the couch, I hear the co-conspirator stirring. Teasing me with a mere 70 seconds of ESPN highlights, Anna has mandated that there shall be no relaxation for the weary.

Their plan worked perfectly -- maximum sleep for The Kids, minimal sleep for the parents. It was my turn this time, but the wife gets hit just as hard. All we, the victims, can do is offer our applause for a battle well-fought.

This is what The Kids can pull off as infant and toddler. I can't fathom what they'll accomplish as youngsters or, as I shudder, teenagers. Something tells me this won't be the last time The Kids will have me awake at odd hours.

· · ·
David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.