Before I became a dad, diaper-changing seemed like a necessary but regrettable part of parenting. Today, I know better.
Stinky diapers are always stinky, and emptying a full diaper bin is never fun. But diapering underscores the radical vulnerability and dependence of young children on their caregivers for well-being and dignity, and young families devote significant time and attention to it, every day and throughout the day. (As columnist Courtney E. Martin puts it, “You Began in Love (or Someone Once Wiped Your Ass Over and Over Again.”1) As such, diapering is a vital context wherein parents can connect meaningfully with their young children and build a foundation of mutual respect and trust.
Looking back on my kids’ diaper years, I recognize how little control I ever had over the circumstances of diapering. Good preparation was essential, of course: we kept the changing table and the diaper bag stocked with every supply we might need, including books reserved especially for the kids to flip through during diaper changes. But that’s where my control over the situation ended.
Some diapers were quick and easy to change, and others were not. Some diaper-changes coincided neatly with a break in play and routine, and others required disruption of a cherished activity. I discovered some dirty diapers immediately and others far too late. When out of the house, I didn’t always find a dignified changing table in the men’s restroom: sometimes, I had to lay our changing pad on the floor. And the more time that any of this took, the more impatient my child might become—and the more anxious I might become. That’s when I might start to panic about “containing things,” and that outlook would prime me to resist my kids’ movements rather than solicit their partnership in the process—and this would produce only further resistance from them.
But there was one diapering resource I could always rely on, if I kept my wits mindfully about me: my own good humor. This primed me to respond good-naturedly to the actual conditions before me, whatever they might be. And by far, singing was the most effective way for me to draw on good humor. Music, alongside writing, has always been a primary medium through which I make sense of my own experiences and feelings. From the moment I learned I would become a dad, I knew I wanted to share my musical life with my kids.
That’s how I started singing about poop and pee.
It began with improvisations during diaper changes. I would play with words and elevate some humorous or wondrous aspect of the moment to absurd heights, and my child would teach me whether I was on the right track by smiling, laughing, and inviting me to sing it again. Attending to my child’s reactions brought us together in joy and got me out of my own head: I could let go of any anxiety I might feel and focus on my child’s needs in the moment. Singing wasn’t a foolproof method for maintaining connection during a diaper change, but the odds of doing so were much better, and I felt better about my own contributions to the process.
As my kids kept requesting favorite bits of wordplay, some of these improvisations distilled into a repertoire of songs for different kinds of diapering situations. The lyrics for these songs are sprinkled throughout the book. Writing and singing these songs with my kids taught me that joy can spring from the vast majority of situations in our daily lives together, provided that I meet them with a light, improvisational disposition and embrace each situation for what it is.
I also learned about the limits of joy and when and how not to sing. No song can heal a painful diaper rash, and I couldn’t imagine my child smiling or laughing under such circumstances. Likewise, though the songs were funny, I never made my child the butt of the joke. This would have undercut my child’s dignity, violated the trust on which our interaction depended, and pushed us apart instead of holding us together—and again, I couldn’t imagine my child smiling or laughing in response.
Through their responses, my kids taught me the power of my singing and good humor to strengthen our bond. The songs in this book represent me and my kids at our most joyfully (and scatologically) improvisational and loving.
Courtney E. Martin, “You Began in Love (or Someone Once Wiped Your Ass Over and Over Again),” On Being, November 14, 2014, https://onbeing.org/blog/you-began-in-love-or-someone-once-wiped-your-ass-over-and-over-again/ [Accessed July 10, 2020.]