Waste

I have changed roughly 700,000 diapers since Lyla was born. Maybe that's a slight exaggeration. I've written previously about how newborn soiled diapers don't smell since breast milk does not yield nearly the type of waste that you'll find with formula or, good heavens, solid foods.

Upstairs in the nursery is a simple plastic trash can with a foot pedal that opens the top. Into this trash can go diapers and wipes, change after change after change, until finally nothing more will fit. By that time, friends, I assure you, there is a smell.

For some reason, all garbage-related matters have always fallen to me in this relationship. In fact, I don't think Julie has touched a garbage bag since 2002. I'm not sure she's aware that the giant garbage bin is kept in the garage, or that the men in the big trucks come to pick it up every Tuesday. I think she lives in a world of fairies and leprechauns, where garbage disappears and coffee pots fill themselves.

Anyway, this morning I pulled the bag out of the diaper bin, and it bulged dangerously as I eased it down the stairs. Outside I gingerly slung the bag over my shoulder and hauled it, like Santa in your worst nightmare, to the end of the driveway where the stuffed garbage bin already sat waiting for the men in the trucks. I thought to myself, I hope this is the day that a hooligan digs through my trash to steal my identity.

As Lyla's diapers continue to transition from smelling like nothing to smelling like the hot breath of Lucifer, we may need to buy a fancier can, perhaps airtight or with electronic perfume spritzers. And at that time (or before), I propose that Julie take over the duty of disposing of the doody.