I know, I'm as excited as you are! You guys LOVE Jack and his funny stories, good thing he is here to save me during my writer's block festival. If you haven't read Part I and II you'll want to after you read this hysterical story. You can read them here and here. Enjoy.....
(Preface: Our oldest son and his lovely wife had their first child, our first grandchild, on Christmas Eve. As I anticipated a new career as a grandfather, my past experiences with The Babies of Others came to mind.)
The story progresses with Part III: The Unbelievable Baby
It didn’t seem to me that a tiny organic package you could easily fit into a medium-sized grocery sack could spray three gallons of urine onto one’s trousers, but my third encounter with a new baby proved me wrong.
(NOTE: I don’t advocating grocery sacks as a good way to tote junior around town. However, if you do, I recommend going with paper and double bagging. And don’t use those spindly paper handles; hold the sack at the bottom – you don’t want baby to squirt out.)
This little fellow (another offspring of a friend of a friend’s friend) was a puffy, marshmallowy cherub who gave the impression of being pleasant of nature. A Cabbage Patch Kid come alive, if you will.
It was a warm and humid summer day and the baby was nattily clad in the smallest NASCAR t-shirt I’d ever seen and a disposable diaper adorned with scenes from the Daytona 500. The diaper had plenty of room for the baby to grow into, which should have been my first warning of impending disaster. But, like all the other adults in attendance, I was mesmerized by the child’s drunken smile and small bursts of laughter at the adults’ moronic antics.
This right here is an example of how all babies ought to be, I thought. I pulled my ears out and said, “lal labba lal” or something similar and the baby laughed and laughed. “Great baby”, I said. “Want to hold him?” the mom asked. I said, “Sure.” (Here’s a piece of advice: whenever you’re asked to hold a baby, always say no thanks.)
At this juncture in my career with babies, I had accumulated very few total minutes of practice holding them. Pretty much no minutes. I had a rough idea of the format, but no hands on experience. Thus, when the baby was presented to me, I grabbed it around its flabby torso and held it at arms’ length like one would hold up a shirt to judge its size. The baby gave me his signature tipsy grin and then he performed some squirmings that at first glance seemed random, playful, and harmless.
But the movements weren’t random. And they weren’t harmless.
He wiggled his hips and legs to free himself of his diaper, which thudded to the wood floor like a towel wrapped around a piece of clay. I dared not look down at it.
The baby then showered my pants with a stream of pee that could have doused the flames engulfing a two-bedroom bungalow.
You can’t just drop or fling a baby, that’s a rule any sane society obeys. However, you can aim a peeing baby at other targets. That’s allowed. While I received the lion’s share of the baby’s liquid payload, I succeeded in distributing a few splashes of what was left of the urinary salvo to a few of my laughing friends. The Peeing Baby’s mom apologized profusely, nearly matching the profusion from her progeny’s bladder. The dad said he’d been hit several times in the past week, as if that was a comfort. After twenty minutes or so of nonstop whizzing, the Peeing Baby changed his expression to drunken contentment. I handed him back to his mother and asked the logical but rhetorical question, “How does something that small possess a reservoir for that much pee?”
The journey continues with Part IIII: Babies on Parade......