Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

First off, kid poop is weird. It’s not solid. It looks like you left guacamole out on the counter for three days. Most times. But other times, as was the case with Natalia, it would be these hard, dusty, dry pellets. At a certain point when she was a toddler, her shit looked like something a dung beetle would roll around. I was wondering if she was just eating flour.

When the kids were first born Lynette would say, “You’re going to have to change diapers.” To which I replied, “Nope, payback’s a bitch. I’ve been busting my ass for the first ten years of our relationship while you’ve been eating bon-bons. Time to step up.” She shot back, “Why, because you’re some sort of celebrity?” I said, “Damn straight. I’ve been celebritying for the past ten years to pay for the house the diapers are in and the in-vitro that made the little shit machines in the first place. I’ve done my part.”

I can count the number of number twos I’ve cleaned on one hand. I don’t have that gene. I’m uncomfortable with the whole process. I don’t like seeing my daughter’s chest, never mind down in lady-town. You’ve got to take that wipe and get in there to clean the girl parts. Not happening. And with the boys, you’ve got to clean around the ding-a-ling and sack. A little kid sack looks like a rabbit’s brain or something. It’s like trying to clean a golf ball. Shouldn’t you just be able to dip them in something? Can’t we get My First Bidet out to market?

There were only a few times when I was alone with them when they were babies, so there were only a few diaper-tunities anyway. I remember one night that Lynette was out and it was all me, Mr. Mom. They were crying and I thought, just let them be. I knew I fed them and that they weren’t being consumed by sewer rats. But they were unrelenting. I was up and down all night. Sonny used to make a face like a bad Mexican actor before he’d cry, so once I caught on to his tell, I’d blow in his face to confuse him out of it, like a dog hanging his head out the window. It interrupted his thought process and shut down the waterworks. It wasn’t effective on Natalia. I had to hang out in their room all night. I couldn’t leave or they’d cry. I’d try to sneak out but as soon as they figured out I wasn’t around, they’d start wailing again.

Another night, Lynette and the gals were going out to see the Beastie Boys, and before they left I was given the condescending rundown: “Put on the quiet music,” “Put on the blankie,” “As they nod off, move them from the daybed into the crib.” While Lynette was getting ready, Natalia started making noises, like preverbal conversation cooing kind of sounds. Sonny, meanwhile, was crying like a stuck pig. I thought the difference was interesting and funny and wanted to play it on the morning radio show the next day. I grabbed a camera and was videotaping them to capture the audio when Lynette walked in. In full “You idiot” tone, she said, “Why are you videotaping them? Just pick them up.” I was already off to a bad start.

While Lynette was listening to the B-boys do “No Sleep Till Brooklyn,” the kids had actually gone to sleep on their daybed. I decided that they were both okay and if I attempted to move them to the crib, I’d end up waking them. So I just left them there. Lynette had warned me Natalia would roll around and flop while Sonny would just sit there like a turtle on its back. (A trend that continues today, as far as physical activity.) I figured I’d be fine hopping out of the room for a few to check some car auctions. I was maybe a minute into my second favorite Internet-related activity when I heard some crying. I came back in and Natalia was facedown on the floor. She had rolled herself out of the daybed, two feet down to the carpet. Sonny was still in the bed unfazed. I ran in and grabbed her, she was squealing but seemed more confused than hurt. I checked for damage and was carrying her around, and saying it was okay and not to tell anybody. I didn’t hear her hit the ground, just the crying afterward, so I had to assume that it wasn’t too bad. Needless to say, when Lynette saw the bump that later appeared on Natalia’s head, I was not left alone with them as infants very much.

On a fecal side note: Natalia was a gassy baby. I remember there was one night when she was constantly breaking wind, and then the dog Molly got in on it, too. So I decided, fuck it, I was going to let it fly myself. I was going to fart-icipate. We’d have a nice family fart fest. It was kind of fun, until Lynette came in and blamed me, and then didn’t appreciate when I tried to pin it on Natalia and the dog.

When it came time to potty train them, Natalia beat Sonny to the punch. I came home one night, and Lynette said, “Do you notice anything different about Natalia?” I immediately guessed something was up with her hair. That’s usually the answer to “Notice anything different?” with the chicks. Lynette told me, “No, she’s wearing her underpants.” This might seem like I was tuned out, but it’s ultimately a good thing that I didn’t notice, because the last thing you want is the answer, “Yep, I know that crotch up and down and I noticed instantly something was off.” That’s what we’d call a tell in the To Catch a Predator game.

It wasn’t a perfect pull-up to potty progression. We developed a system where I had to wake her up at midnight and take her to pee so that she didn’t have an accident in bed. It was a little hit and miss. Sometimes she’d beat me to the pee-pee punch. If she was wet, I’d make Lynette handle it. I wasn’t fucking with that nonsense. But most times she’d just be in this fog, take care of business and later have no memory of it. I’d rub her head and gently coach her to take a leak, so Daddy could get to bed himself. But I didn’t know about the toilet paper part, until I was informed by Lynette that I didn’t know that there was front wiping for the ladies after a tinkle. I’m a guy, we only have one use for toilet paper. And I can’t wipe for her. That would be super weird. So I’d hand her the paper and let her do it. It was dark, because I didn’t want to wake her up and her midnight motor skills weren’t so good, so who knows how that all went, but an attempt was made and soon we were all able to go back to bed.

But those minutes waiting for her to pee felt like forever. I’d just sit there and wait in the silence and then, suddenly, it would sound like someone was using a pressure washer to clean the coping of a pool.

Let me do a little side tangent on bathroom sounds. I was at another one of my vintage races and had the bad luck of having to make a number two in the port-a-potty. I didn’t have any other option. That is a fate worse than death. We all know the smell is terrible but what I realized then was that even more disconcerting is the sound. Or lack thereof. The worst noise a man, woman or child can hear is when your ass is on that wafer-thin port-a-potty seat to do a little offloading and the dook doesn’t make the splash sound. It just sounds like you shit on a hot rock. That splash noise is comforting, as opposed to that awful “flop” sound. I’d rather hear a dentist’s drill. You get this in the airplane bathroom, too. You don’t realize how much you miss that sound when you don’t have it. This led me to envision another in my series of new apps. I call it Kerplunk . You put your earbuds in and, at the appropriate time, hit the button and it plays a nice splash sound, like dropping a charcoal briquette into a bucket of water.

Back to Natalia and her wily urethra. One time, she pulled down the pajamas and underpants like normal, and somehow the stream was off and she ended up soaking her jammies. So I was standing there holding her pee -jays, trying not to drip the wee on myself while fishing around in the dark for a clean pair. I ended up grabbing Sonny’s Underoos and holding them up to the nightlight to try to figure out what the fuck is going on without waking him up. I was on the verge of just telling her to go to bed without underwear or pajamas. But I didn’t want to endure Lynette’s wrath if she found Natalia naked the next morning, or the awkwardness of that partially recovered memory. I can just hear Natalia telling you, her therapist, “All I remember is my dad getting me up in the middle of the night, and then waking up naked the next morning.”