A loud cry shatters the relative peace and quiet of our home. Running footsteps, swooping arms and then a deep male voice that coos loudly, “Oh no, is Papa’s widdle tiny babywaby blue? Is she blue? Oh no, she is blue. Blue blue blue. Papa’s gonna take care of you right away.”
This incredibly fast emasculation of a normal adult male happens within hours of the birth of the first child. The hospital passes you a squirming, crying child and one of those magical diapers with the strip that turns blue everytime said child pees or poops. Being both completely clueless and completely overwhelmed by the bowel movement charts, boob rotation schedule and the tiny life that is at your mercy, you view said magical strip like a gift from the parenting gods. Finally one thing you don’t have to guess about.
This is what it was like when we had our first child. She cried. We checked the yellow-turn-blue strip. Strip was blue. We changed her. We then likely continued on through our rotation of 15 other things that could be making her cry at any moment (She’s too hot. No, too cold. No, hungry. No, just ate. Burp. etc.) 15 things were in the area of “your best guess is as good as mine” and 1 was certain: blue.
