Zachary Alexander Broughton
On November 23, 2010 I was gifted with my first (and hopefully only) child. His name is Zachary Alexander Broughton. He came out of my wife. He has Samantha’s mouth, chin, and stubbornness, as well as my eyes, nose, and genitalia. He is the ultimate conclusion to roughly 12 hours of labor, which isn’t as bad as many think because as it turns out, epidurals are amazing.
As a result of this momentous event, I now have the wonderful memories of Mother’s first epidural, almost falling into a chair at the sight of Mother’s first epidural, shortly thereafter followed by seeing a head squeezed into a shape I’d never imagined possible. In addition to these new experiences, I was also treated to the view of mother’s private parts that more closely resembled the last half hour of “Alien” than anything else I’ve witnessed.
After having gone through all this, the nurses suggested I go over to the little baby oven box thingie in the room and say hello to my son while they minimized the blood and gore that had escaped from my wife’s nether regions. “Talk to him!” they urged, despite the fact that there’s no way the kid could know English yet. So I said something like “Hey Zach! It’s your father. Enjoy this escapade because it’s likely the only time in your life you’ll be naked in a room with this many women.” For some reason the nurses did not find this funny.
Unfortunately Zachary spent his first week in the NICU, which caused an unimaginable amount of stress for both myself and his mother, we later learned that it actually made our lives a little bit easier…namely after his first night home. I haven’t had to bear the brunt of Zach’s wrath in the evening hours, mostly due to the fact that I’m going to work in the morning and the wife is not, it still does not make things pleasant by any means.
Now, having lived through getting the kid of mother, I had to face my second hurdle that was sure to buckle my knees…namely, shit. Feces, poo, crap, or whatever you want to call it, it’s not pleasant at all. I’ve got something of a weak stomach when it comes to unsavory smells. Day old trash cans make me gag, ok? While I managed to weather my first diaper change with some semblance of aplomb, only putting the diaper on backwards, getting peed on, and putting on his clothes upside down, the second was a disaster.
It was a monster turd, a huge squirtle of orange stuff that I assume was poo because of its origination, and the diaper could not contain it. Unfortunately I was the one holding him at the time, and it went all over. All over him, all over his legs, back, and onto his clothes. It went through his clothes, and on to mine. Through my clothes and on to me. This stuff has nothing on teflon, I tell ya. It’s molecular structure must be akin to the most slippery substance known to man, as it will work it’s way through anything it covers to coat whatever is beneath.
I got myself cleaned up and then for some stupid reason decided to hold him again so his mother could shower. Idiot, rookie mistake. He puked on me. I changed yet again.
Despite all of this, for some reason at odd hours I’ll find myself walking into his room and bending over his crib. You know, so I can prod him and make sure he’s still alive.
