One Bottle Too Many

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Most of my readers know that in addition to being a Dad, I am also a granddad and I dote on them all with equal enthusiasm. Trixie, not having any children of her own, has to endure my constant bragging and occasional baby-sitting duties.

Now, I understand how daunting it is to be around kids. Just last week Ol' Dutch was called into emergency baby-sitting service for my two granddaughters, ages 3-year-old and 4-month-old.

For some men this may feel like a death sentence and in actuality, parts of it are.

When my daughter was born I was naïve and found out quickly that changing a dirty diaper was just not my cup of tea. I held my nose yet would still retch with each diaper. I tried closing my eyes but she ended up with it over her nose. This led to me being banished from the diapering department which is “just exactly where I wanted to be.”

My grandkids, though, are pretty good about “holding it.” Pastors always encourage us to “pray without ceasing” and now I know what that prayer is for.

So last week found me and Trixie with the grandkids in the RV. At one point I needed some help and handed the baby to Trixie and her eyes looked like a deer in the headlights. Panic flushed her cheeks, her legs got weak and her voice began to tremble.

Having spent numerous days climbing the Himalayan mountains, including Mount Everest, plus traveling all-around the world, I do believe that holding a tiny baby is scarier to her than having to face down a bear.

I took the baby back and Trixie gladly volunteered to take the 3-year-old out to play on the swing set. Things went along smoothly for most of the day with no major accidents and a few wet diapers that I handled like the man I am.

There is a famous movie called “A Bridge Too Far” about WWII and the allies over reaching their offensive. I soon found out that equally overreaching is the “One Bottle Too Many.”

There we were sitting quietly in the rocker, Grandpa and Granddaughter #2 just whiling away the hours, her cooing softly while she drank her bottle. One burp later and she was sleeping in my arms with nary a care.

Suddenly a gurgling sound began to emanate from her drawers and Ol' Dutch knew there was trouble in paradise. This left me two options. Either change this kid out or take her to the car wash and rinse her off. Alas, without any change, a car wash was out of the question so I had to change her.

Luckily I am in the Dallas area and emergency Ebola suits are readily available everywhere and I was able to suit up for a mere $269 and get the job done.

The only good news is that it gave me ample inspiration for an epic poem.

  • Major Blowout
  • Poop on her jammies, poop on the chair
  • Somehow she got some green poop in her hair
  • It ran down the carpet and onto the floor
  • It made a right turn and out the front door
  • It splattered in going and up on the screen
  • Stairs are now colored a deep shade of green
  • The sidewalk is covered in hues like the seas
  • And matches my dinner a big bowl of peas
  • Out in the street it flowed down the hill
  • Neighbors start shrieking one woman quite shrill
  • On down the gutter and into the lake
  • Where it’s sucked up in pipes the city intake
  • Then over the dam and on further south
  • Across southern bayous and into fish's mouth
  • Houston now warned a flood is en route
  • All from one baby, what went in her mouth?

 I read recently that dogs always face North and South while doing their duty so from now on this kid will always be aligned with my GPS so I can guess the next blowout like a good weatherman predicting an approaching storm. Let this be a lesson: beware the one bottle too many.