Say Never (9 page)

“What’s that noise in the background?”

“The girls. They’re getting ready for dinner. Here. Talk to Tebow.”

I hand my nephew the phone and he immediately starts to gnaw on the receiver. I pull it away from him, then hold it properly against his ear.

“Say hi to Mama,” I tell him while Caroline starts babbling to him in a sickly sweet voice.

“Hi, TeeTee! It’s Mommy! How’s my big boy?”

Tebow’s eyes light up. “Mommy!” he shrieks with delight. “Mommy, mommy, mommy! Fuck me!”

“WHAT???” Caroline cries.

My finger
accidentally
presses the ‘off’ button, disconnecting the call.
Ooops
.

“TeeTee poopoo,” my nephew says, smiling happily as though his taking a shit is the most exciting thing on earth.

“McKenna!” I yelp. “Do you know how to change your brother’s diaper?”

“No-way, olay! I’m not ‘llowed.”

Terrific!

Holding my nephew at arm’s length, so I won’t have to change my clothes again—and trash another ensemble, no matter how much it deserves to be trashed based on what it is—I carry Tebow into his room and set him gingerly upon his changing table. I stand there for a moment, regarding his lower half as though it’s a time bomb about to explode.

I count to ten. Then to twenty. Then to thirty.

Very gently, I tug at the waistband of his jammie bottoms, so as not to disturb the diaper. As soon as I get them to his knees, an unbelievably toxic stink assaults my nasal passages.

I stop what I’m doing and start counting again.

* * *

This has officially become the single worst day of my life, the day of my mother’s funeral included. When I die, if I get into Heaven and there actually is a God, I’m going to have a long conversation with Him about the nature of baby poo. I mean, seriously. Why, in His infinite wisdom, could He not have made humans poop like rabbits—little dry,
easy to clean up,
pellets. But no. He made this. How could a benevolent God create
this?
I have opened the diaper and the sight and smell on the changing table before me is like something out of a horror flick. The movie’s tagline rolls in my head:
Toddler! The Smell Alone Will Kill You!

I’m desperately trying to breathe through my mouth, but every few seconds I get a whiff and gag violently. Tebow seems inured to my distress and is entertaining himself with the tinfoil hat.

Sweet Mother of God! I cannot do this.

The diaper is a living thing, full of brown gooey, nasty muck, some of which is still clinging to my nephew’s butt. I look around for some sterile gloves, but none are in view.

People actually do this with their bare hands? Revolting!

A few years ago, one of the assistant producers at the station, a lovely and utterly bland young married woman whose name I can no longer recall, invited me to her baby shower. I am not in favor of baby showers or bridal showers or any other kind of ‘shower’ unless it falls from the sky or my bathroom showerhead. And I’d rather stick my head in an oven than play the dreaded baby shower games. At this party, they had a game I found particularly foul and tasteless, but which all of the other women in attendance found hilariously entertaining.

The hostess had taken a bunch of disposable diapers, put a different type of chocolate bar in each—Baby Ruth, Hundred Thousand Dollar Bar, Hershey’s with Almonds, etc.—then stuck the diapers in the microwave to melt the chocolate. Then the guests had to identify the kind of candy bar, the winner being the one who correctly identified the most.

I remember watching with disgust all of the women burying their noses in the diapers and touching the ‘poop’ and even going so far as to take little tastes of the diapers’ bounties. Just to win a box of freaking dime-store bath beads.

This memory is currently making me want to heave.

“Hi.”

I jerk with surprise and my hand brushes against the warm, moist goo.
Aaak!

Matt Ryan stands in the doorway—again—biting his lip to keep from smirking.

“Hi. Pizza’s here. The girls are eating.”

I cannot reply, cannot utter a single syllable because there is TEBOW POO ON MY SKIN! All I can manage is a low mewling sound like that of a sick kitty.

“Are you okay?”

I hold up my hand in lieu of a response. When he realizes what I’m showing him, he springs into action, crossing to me in two long strides. I watch, paralyzed, as he opens the top drawer of the changing table and withdraws a plastic box of baby wipes. He pops the top and pulls one through the rubber teeth.

“More,” I manage to choke out.

He pulls out another.

“MORE!”

Nodding, he yanks out a wad and passes it to me.

“Glrobzee!” Tebow exclaims, pumping his legs like he’s riding a bicycle.

I scrub the offending fecal matter—seriously?—from my hand with such force I probably remove the top layer of my skin. When I’ve cleaned it as sufficiently as possible without a brillo pad and rubbing alcohol, I pull another wad of wipes from the box and begin to ineffectually slap them against Tebow’s hind quarters. Unfortunately, his legs keep getting in the way.

Matt is standing so close to me that I can smell his musk-scented soap, which is a hell of a lot better than soiled diaper. I have the crazy urge to bury my nose in his cardigan.

“Is this your first diaper?” he asks.

“No,” I snap. “Not my first. I changed my brother’s diaper when I was four.”

“So, that was a long time ago, huh?”

I turn and glare at him. “Are you
trying
to be funny?”

“No, I’m not. Honestly. It’s just…you kind of have to…” He reaches for Tebow’s ankles, clutches them in a firm grasp and lifts the toddler’s legs. In one swift motion, he folds the diaper over itself and scoops it away, then deposits it into a strange, thigh-high contraption next to the changing table.

“Now you wipe,” he declares, still holding Tebow’s ankles.

Cringing with my entire body, I swipe at my nephew’s butt, quickly discarding each wipe the instant it becomes stained. By the time his butt is clean, I’ve gone through the entire box. I look around for a fresh diaper. Without a word, Matt reaches into the top drawer and produces a beautiful, brand-spanking-new Huggies, and the only reason I know the brand is because the word Huggies is written on the side of it.

“Thanks,” I say, more tersely than I’d intended. His acumen in the diaper-changing department has magnified my shame. I suddenly feel the need to prove I’m capable, despite my own diaper-changing deficiency. “I have a talk radio show, you know.”

“Really?” he says, but he doesn’t sound impressed.

“In New York City,” I clarify.

“That’s great. Um, you’ve got this, right?”

I’m not sure I’ve put the diaper on correctly—I’ve had to reattach the adhesive tab twice—but what the hell? “Sure. Yeah. I’ve got this.”

“Because I’ve kind of got to get home.”

“Of course you do.” I heave a sigh. Probably the ‘little woman’ and his own precious offspring are wondering where the hell Daddy went. “Thanks for all your help.”

He moves to the door. “No problem. It was really, um, nice meeting you.”

I glance over at him. “Yeah, you too.” I grab Tebow’s pajama bottoms and begin the task of easing them up his legs. It’s a slow and arduous process, especially since my nephew is taking this opportunity to rehearse for a stint with the Rockettes, alternately kicking his legs out with enthusiasm. By the time I finish and look up, Matt Ryan is gone.

I grasp my nephew under his armpits and set him back on the floor.

“Milflew!” he announces around his pacifier.

“Pizza. Yes. Let’s go.”

He trots out of the room. I follow him down the hall, eyeing his butt, which looks rather saggy, and realize that his diaper has already come undone and has slipped down to his thighs.

Fuck it!

The girls are seated at the dining room table, taking part in a feeding frenzy, and when I look around, all I can think is
CSI: Kindergarten.
Pizza sauce (blood splatter) and melted cheese (bits of brain matter) decorate every available surface, from the table top to the chairs to the beige carpet, as well as every mouth and shirt in sight. I feel my shoulders shoot to my ears as the realization hits that I will be the one to clean up this mess.

Tebow, finding no empty seat, marches over to his sister and starts climbing into her lap to get at the remaining slices. As he reaches towards the middle of the table, McKenna lets out a cry of pain and shifts position, causing Tebow to lose his balance and go flying. His face lands in the middle of a pizza box, and when he pushes himself up, a piece of cheese pizza is stuck to his cheek. He immediately starts to shriek as though an alien has attached itself to his face and is sucking the life out of him. His shrieks are contagious. Within seconds, all the girls are shrieking with him.

Oh my God. How did I think I could handle this? And for ten days? I can’t handle this for two hours!

I try to form a coherent thought, to push aside the madness threatening my rational brain.

But it’s useless. I’m done. I have nothing left. I can’t even manage to count. I fall back against the dining room wall, my head spinning.

I should never have left Manhattan.
I should have stayed home.

On a positive note, it only took ninety minutes for me to realize that I never want to have a child. Not in a million trillion zillion years. I am officially cured.

“Who wants ice cream?”

I haven’t been to church in years, but I swear my brother’s voice sounds like the voice of an angel. I turn to see him standing at the archway of the dining room, grinning at me.

“Danny!” I croak, relief washing over me.

“I do! I do! I do!” the girls holler as Danny swiftly moves to the table and scoops Tebow into his arms. He glances down at his son’s diaper, which is now around his knees, then looks over at me and shakes his head. Suddenly annoyed, I flip him the bird.

“Grab your plates and throw them away, ladies,” he instructs, and the girls immediately follow his orders, marching to the kitchen in a tidy, single-file line.

Danny stands for a moment, holding his son and peering at the wreckage around him.

“Wow, sis. Impressive.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You make Melanie look like a good mom.”

His comment hurts, more than I’d like to admit, but I do my best to shrug it off.

“At least I didn’t leave,” I retort. Then I push away from the wall, storm past him, and escape to the safe haven of the guest room.

Six

Meg:
Siblings are good for two things, Barry. They make you appreciate your own life.

Barry:
Uh, Meg, that’s only one thing.

Meg:
Oh, yeah. Right. Siblings are good for one thing.

* * *

I lay on top of the comforter, a cold, wet washcloth over my eyes and forehead. I took some ibuprofen, but my temples are still throbbing. I need a drink, but I refuse to leave the guest room until I’m completely sure that all the monsters have been spirited back to their lairs. So far, I’ve only heard the doorbell ring three times, which means there are still a couple of creatures left. Unless—and this might be wishful thinking—one or two of the moms carpooled and took an extra child with them. I seize upon that idea and silently pray that my brother has some vodka. I’ll even settle for the cheap stuff.

Removing the washcloth, I push myself up against the headboard, then glance at the bedside clock. 8:30. Suddenly, that line from
Marathon Man
comes to mind. “Is it safe? Is it safe?”

I cross to the door and ease it open a crack, then listen for a moment. All is quiet. I tiptoe down the hall, stopping at McKenna’s bedroom. By the wan glow of the princess night light, I see the sleeping form of my niece on the bed against the far wall, can just detect her rhythmic breathing. Wow. She is out like a freaking light. Not that I’m surprised. I continue past Tebow’s closed door and through to the living room, which has been mysteriously restored to its pre-tsunami state.

I head for the dining room, coming to a halt at the threshold when I see my brother seated at the head of the dining room table. He holds my sleeping nephew in his arms.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey yourself,” I say, and Danny flinches at the volume of my voice. He raises himself slowly and carefully out of the chair, so as not to disturb Tebow, then silently moves past me and down the hall. I continue to the kitchen and begin ransacking the cupboards for something to drink. Danny appears a few minutes later without Tebow, and by that time, I’ve checked everywhere and come up dry.