Should've Worn A Diaper

I'm sitting in a rocking chair in a room. The curtains are drawn, the lights are off, and a white noise machine on a nearby shelf is busy forming a protective barrier against any outside sounds that would seek to disturb the slumber of this room’s inhabitants. In my lap lays my youngest son. This is his room we’re in, and it’s his bedtime we’re working on. I am giving him a bottle, his night-night bottle, the bottle that, along with my rocking and soothing, will send him off to sleep.

I sense that it's taking longer than usual for him to pass out. He is quiet, but restless. His blue eyes are wide open, betraying barely a hint of sleepiness. The heaviness that usually appears around his eyelids about this time is late. Which is bad because, as I sit here, I realize that there’s something I should have done before I sat here. Nature is calling, but I can’t come to the phone just now, but rather than go to voicemail, the ring just gets louder. I try to ignore it by focusing on the task at hand. I focus on the bottle, my baby boy draining its contents, the milk going down into his belly, his little digestive system taking it in and making use of its nutrients, the rest of it being shipped off to be turned into waste, the liquid parts of which will be stored in his tiny little bladder which he is still too young to control, which just reminds me of my own bladder, which seems fuller and fuller by the moment.

I consider interrupting the night-night routine to hit the toilet, but just then, the boy’s eyes start to flutter. We might be on our way, and stopping now could jeopardize the entire operation, thus putting the evening at risk for adults all over the house. It occurs to me that having to piss is the stupidest kind of agony. You know you have to piss, your body knows you have to piss, why must it get bitchier and bitchier in its demands that you open the floodgates? I find myself being jealous of my son and his fancy diaper and his ability to just pee wherever he wants. I wonder how absorbent my shorts are. I wonder if my wife would think less of me if I had an “accident.” I wonder if I would think less of me. I wonder if astronauts feel kind of stupid when they pee in their little astronaut diapers. I wonder if they tell each other when they’re peeing. “Hey, I’m peeing while I fly a space ship!” I wonder if all that diaper wearing causes astronauts to develop freaky diaper kinks. I wonder if my face is turning yellow. The boy is no longer wide awake, but he is still struggling against sleep. This is taking ridiculously longer than usual.

The bottle is empty and we’re up now, bouncing gently around the room, the boy on my shoulder, my bladder set to explode. Each bounce carries him closer to sleep and me closer to the breaking point. I think about all the people around the world who are voiding their bowels at this very moment, whether on a toilet, in a urinal, or under a tree. I resent them all.

Finally, the boy’s eyes are closed and he has entered the world of sleep. The sandman will paint vast dreamscapes for him to play in throughout the night. I lean over to lay the boy down and find that the side of the crib is perfectly positioned to press against my bladder. I slip my hands out from under him, slowly open the door to his room, and curse to myself for the millionth time that I’ve got to WD-40 those hinges to fix that horrid squeak. I head downstairs, hand off the bottle to my wife, and race to the toilet where sweet relief awaits me. The evening has been saved, but it took much longer than usual.