Ah the change outfit. It goes in the diaper bag as an extra set of clothes in case there is an accident. Take it with you – because you just don’t know.
Or rather, you do know. You know that the kid will drop a deuce as soon as you get on the highway. Or sit down to eat. Or open a beer. It will escape the diaper. You know it will.
And then you’re finding a changing surface. The floor maybe. A counter. Or hidden in the booth. Wrangling a wriggling worm out of filthy clothes and putting them… somewhere. Keeping the feet out of it, and the hands, back, head, elbows, ears and toes. Yours and hers. And your beer.
123 wipes later. Piled up precariously. Diaper bomb in hand. Naked baby.
And that’s when you realize – she hasn’t fit in this outfit in a month.
I drive a minivan and ride a motorcycle.
Enjoying the piss out of parenting - 2 kids, a girl born in 2013 and a boy in 2015.