Skip to main content

The Nappy Changing Guide for Dummies

First of all, don't panic.
Panicking is only useful if you’ve been set on fire or they open a new till at Aldi. In a nappy change environment, panic will ruin both your spirit and nice carpet.

Be prepared.
This isn't Chicago in the 40’s and you’re not Miles Davis - you can't just rock up and start improvising. You need to nail this operation to the wall. Get everything you need ready. Would you go camping without a tent?

Wipes, wipes and more wipes.
You can't have too many but you can definitely have too few. The last thing you want is to run out and have to use your sock.

Grab a new nappy. (Yes, you'll need one of these.)
This sounds more patronizing than offering Lance Armstrong tips on bullshit I've lost count of the number of times I've done the hard work by getting a clean bum ready but forgotten to prep the fresh nappy. This is the parental equivalent of dribbling past three defenders, dancing round the oncoming keeper and then spooning the ball over the crossbar.

Open the new nappy up.
You can’t bake a pie without making the pastry so open the flaps, flatten it out and for the love of god, work out which end is the front.

Which end is the front though?
Fuck knows. Maybe there’s a little teddy bear or something on it.

Get the nappy bag ready.
By ready I mean open. You don't want to be licking your fingers to get purchase on the bag after a messy change.

Have you pulled the new nappy’s flaps out yet?
For god’s sake, why not?  Do it now.

Undo the dirty nappy and brace yourself
The contents aren’t going to be fun - it’s a dirty nappy, not a party popper. The best you can hope for is that it’s just chock-full of piss. Hardly cause for celebration.

Get the old nappy off. Quickly!
Take care but don’t hang about. Imagine you’re at a self-scan checkout and there’s a massive queue behind you.

You’re panicking aren’t you? I specifically told you NOT to panic.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the self-scan checkout.

Get wiping!
Remember those wipes you got ready? Use all of them.

If it’s a girl, don’t wipe back to front.
Nobody wants a muddy front garden.

If it’s a boy, his willy is a weapon.
There'll be no warning siren or countdown - just hot piss all over you. And that’s if you’re lucky - if you’re unlucky he’ll wazz into his own face and seem to love it, leaving you feeling rather disturbed. And curious.

Hold their legs. Tight.
They’ll try to Riverdance their way through their own bumjuice. They must be stopped.                               
That beautiful nursey wall you spent hours painting before the baby arrived, singing lullabies and feeling happier that you can ever remember? Totally splattered with shit in 5 seconds.

Grab their hands too.
It feels like you’re holding down a patient as you put them into a straightjacket but wriggling isn’t welcome here. My boys believe their fresh excrement being on show is a perfect occasion to do the Y.M.C.A.

Wrap that dirty nappy up tight.
Like an enchilada, ideally. Otherwise your bin will stink like Willy Wonka’s jock strap.

Get the new nappy on, now!
Lift their bum up and slide it underneath like a coaster. Pull the ties up and stick them down properly.

Stop panicking!
You’re making me really anxious. Pull yourself together.

If you haven’t pulled the flaps out, go back to the beginning. You have failed.
You weren’t listening were you? You might as well not bother changing them now as your ineptitude has just enabled something messier than the Happy Monday’s tour bus all over your sofa.

I know your shame, I’ve been there myself. Read my account here.

If you’ve pulled the flaps out, you have completed your mission.
Well done. Allow yourself a short moment of smugness.

Don’t get cocky.
You have won today’s battle but make no mistake, your baby will win this dirty war. Enjoy your small victory and get ready to go again. And don’t bite your nails.

Comments

Unknown said…
They’ll try to Riverdance their way through their own bumjuice.... Amazing!
unknown said…
Can't stop giggling! My twins are 22 now but you never forget the horror!
Unknown said…
You forgot the bit where they fist mouthfuls of poo in their own mouths if their hands are left unobserved for 5 seconds
Unknown said…
You forgot the bit where they fist mouthfuls of poo in their own mouths if their hands are left unobserved for 5 seconds

Popular posts from this blog

10 Things I've Learned as a Parent This Week (#29)

1.I cannot believe I EVER complained about being tired pre-kids. 2.That moment when you think there's something seriously wrong with your baby but quickly realise they're just having a massive shite. Ridiculous. 3.The key to cleaning Weetabix off the floor is not to leave it for 10 days. 4.I'm struggling to come to terms with the fact my next lie in will be in 2026. 5.I can recite all the words to The Furchester Hotel yet struggle remembering my own PIN number. 6.They should make talking baby toys swear. Just once or twice a year to keep us interested. 7.I could pick out the noise of a dummy hitting the floor in the middle of an earthquake. 8.Putting shoes on a baby will make you twice as late. 9.I could shave a chimp with ADHD quicker than I can dress my son. 10.Only if they ever make me a grandad will my boys truly understand how much I love them. I'm a finalist in the MAD Blog Awards 2016 and you can vote for me in both '

The Time I Screamed at my Kids

Before my kids arrived I swore I’d never shout at them. But choosing how to approach parenthood before your kids are born is like a caterpillar deciding what kind of butterfly they’re gonna be while they’re still building the cocoon. ‘I’ll still do loads of charity work, of course. And I’ll be REALLY nice to moths too, even though they’ll probably hate me because I’ll be so bloody gorgeous.’ Theory and reality are like sugar and shit. I’ve raised my voice to my kids more times than I can count. Often just to shout ‘STOP SHOUTING!’ which I’m aware doesn’t set a great example. ‘You should NEVER shout at your kids.’ And that’s fine. In theory. Because everything’s fine in theory. The Slimfast diet is a piece of piss until day two when you’ve had three hours sleep and someone offers you a Wagon Wheel. Of course, I never WANT to shout at them. I love them more than words can describe. But those you love are also the ones blessed with the innate ability to boil your piss q

The Time I Got Sent to the Naughty Step

The naughty step is only as powerful as the child allows it to be. I once sent my son there and 20 seconds later he came racing through the living room on his fucking bike. I briefly tried to return him to his pleasantly carpeted penitentiary but I was far too busy giggling. On another occasion, my lad wouldn’t go to bed and instead plonked himself down on the bottom of the stairs in defiance. I started to threaten him with a trip to the dreaded step of naughtiness. ‘IF YOU DON’T GET TO BED RIGHT NOW, I’ll, erm….’ I tailed off as I realised he was already sitting on the effing naughty step and my threat now made less sense than Welsh hip-hop. I could see on his little face, he’d worked this out too. He threw me a smirk that said, ‘You’ll do what, knobhead?’ I felt it crucial not to back down. So I continued: ‘I’LL PUT YOU ON THE NAUGHTY STEP, YOUNG MAN!’ ‘But I’m already on it!’ he snorted. My brain turned to scrambled egg. ‘WELL THEN!’ I had nothing. Bu