Kids are beautiful. Their needs are simple. But man, their diapers.

Babysitting wasn’t all that bad. I had a good time. Given my experience in the church nursery for 1.5 years and 2.5 years teaching teenagers, I say it could have been a lot worse.

In that experience, however, I never had to change a diaper.

I know how to change diapers; I mean, I did it like 50 times yesterday.

It’s just that along with the instinct to nurse, babies could also have been born with the ability to use the toilet. Those two processes are quite directly related to each other. Ingestion, elimination: it only makes sense.

The crying was minimal. Also, I dealt with far worse in the church nursery, and I know enough about my own short attention span to incorporate distraction and routine to quell the crying. I’m grateful the parents are consistent.

I was awake for 20 straight hours. Well, not including a 30-minute nap during the kids’ naptime. And the whole time during their nap I kept thinking once they wake up I’d have to change their diapers.

That’s not a way to live.

So, now, I’m in the quiet of my own home, sitting at the kitchen table, putting my head down and closing my eyes for a few moments at a time before resuming typing.

Not a single diaper attached to little, toddling waste factories anywhere near the premises. It doesn’t even matter how cute they are, people. Someone’s gotta do something about the the toilet instinct. I know it’s hidden deep somewhere in our genes. A specific gene on a specific chromosome. And only three alleles (one standing, and two sitting down, depending on gender).  Something just has to activate it before birth.

So I’ll take a shower, slip into my pajamas, and sleep. At least for a few hours.

Then I’ll use the bathroom.

It’s my turn.