Club

The book is included for size comparison. Lyla is like a large loaf of bread.

I have been inducted, christened if you will, into the prestigious club whose members include new dads and college students with drunken, top-bunk roommates. I have been peed on.

After Lyla's bath last night, I held her lovingly to my chest and dried her with a fluffy towel. She seemed so peaceful, so relaxed. Suddenly a pleasant warmth licked against my stomach. My first thought was, hmm, that feels nice. My second thought was, oh, I am a fire hydrant.

When you were little (okay, 16) and your "friends" dipped your hand in warm water at your birthday sleepover and caused you to whiz in your sleeping bag, the same scientific principles were at work. Warm water causes sphincter relaxation. And when you're holding a warm, wet two-week-old, whose sphincter is lazier than the laziest man in Los Angeles County, you'd better have a raincoat on.

In truth, I'm proud it happened. I didn't find it revolting, and I wasn't even slightly upset or annoyed. You see, Lyla is the one who now belongs to the prestigious club, not me. The club is impossibly elite, and you'll never get in. It's the club of people I love so profoundly that they can piss all over me and I don't even care.