Inspired by his recent set of twins, my brother Kenoy put down “Change a Poopy Diaper” on my bucket list. I was absolutely sure this was one of the items I would not do. No way. Absolutely no way.
Anyway, after a nice, sunny day visiting the Niagara Falls, we hopped into two separate cars — one with the men and the other with the girls (Oh, and Kavir!), and started the two hour journey back to Toronto. Halfway on the highway, Kenoy’s phone starts ringing. It’s Niti letting us know that 10-month-old Kiera has managed to not just poop, but poop her way out of the diaper. Emergency. We pull over at the closest Irish Bar, an unlikely spot for this activity. Kiera’s parents spring into action, and she’s all clean.
We’re cruising back on the highway, and a few minutes later, the phone rings again. It’s Niti. Rosy-cheeked, cherub-like Kiera has exploded out of her diaper again.
It takes a few minutes to find a spot on the highway, but we pull over to the closest Tim Hortons. The wife (egged on by Kenoy, of course) convinces me that this is fate. I have to knock out one item from the bucket list.
Nose crinkled and eyes narrow, against all instinct and logic, I quickly grabbed the baby onto the back of the car, and followed the instructions. I changed a poopy diaper. What do I win?