BABY ROT

Because our baby had never had diaper rash, my wife and I had been congratulating ourselves on what a sterling example of parenthood we were turning out to be. Of course the very next morning when I went to change Vivienne’s diaper, her perfectly formed vulva was covered in an unsightly scarlet rash. It reached from, oh roughly her bellybutton right down through her crotch and into her bung hole.
Just seeing this virulent stain brought back to me the many times I had jock rot in high school; probably because I never bothered to wash my jock for weeks on end. But that’s another story.
Enough digression.
Several days later we had tried a variety of cures for the dreaded baby rot, with varying degrees of success. Alas, our previously serene baby was not so unruffled any more. Now she cried, and with good reason, for the rash was a bright crimson swath that screamed to be scratched until raw. I knew, from my previous experience with such disease, how it must burn and itch.
And for one of the few times in my life I actually felt some compassion for another human being. But I was powerless to fix the problem and this feeling of failure tapped into my core insecurities and made me feel inadequate; and so I learned the sorry truth that compassion isn’t such a swell thing after all. I mean, maybe it’s great for the Dali Lama, who can practice it in a general sort of all encompassing way, but he doesn’t have kids with baby rot.
But back to the tale at hand.
A week into our travails I was changing Vivienne one morning as she was sobbing with pain and frustration. And I thought to myself as I stood hunched over the changing table and the writhing baby, “Self, when I have had jock rot, what would have helped make it feel better?”
Without hesitation my Self answered; “Scratching it!”
“Alas, poor Self, we both know that scratching the rot only makes it worse. And even though we want to succor our miserable baby, we don’t actually want to spread the rot any further. No, esteemed Self, you will have to think of something else.”
And then my Self had a true moment of inspiration, “Blow on it”
And so I bent my head over my daughter’s inflamed crotch and I blew cool air on it. And lo and behold, the crying stopped. Again I gently blew and again Vivienne stopped her sobbing. And as I maintained my ministrations my daughter let out a sigh of something close to contentment for the first time in a very long time.
For many minutes I kept on with the gentle blowing of my daughter’s reddened crotch. And during this time my daughter was at peace. Finally she fell asleep, a beatific smile on her face. And I thought to myself; “Self, if anyone ever sees me doing this they just might get the wrong impression.”
And my Self said, “Then why don’t we keep this to ourselves, Bunkums.”
And so we did. Every time I changed the baby I gave her a good blow and she was contented and happy and for some time thereafter she was relieved of her throbbing pain. And all was well in our world and no one was arresting me for practicing unseemly acts on a small child.
A few days later divine providence blessed me with a sparkling opportunity to practice my basic nature; which is never a pretty thing.
As I walked by the baby’s room I happened to glance in and see my wife with her head bent over the baby on the changing table. I remained quite as I watched Rochelle gently blowing on the baby’s crotch. She was cooing softly as she did this, in the way only a truly loving mother can croon. And the baby’s cries were stifled as she descended into a state of blissful harmony and all was at peace in the Finn household.
Naturally I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by and so I sidled up to my wife and said: “East of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon Line you could be incarcerated in a grimy women’s correctional institute for doing that to a child.”
Between breaths she told me just where I could put the Mason-Dixon Line.
“No, seriously,” I said to her, “that is totally perverted.” I didn’t tell her that I had been doing the very same maneuver on the baby earlier in the day.
“There’s only one pervert in this room and it is not Vivienne or me, Buster.”
“Hey, I’m not the one blowing the baby!”
This clever rejoinder finally got a rise out of her and she stopped her comforting long enough to fix me with a glare. Her cheeks were flushed, either from blowing on the baby or from anger; I like to think, in my humble way, that it was the latter.
“That sounds disgusting,” she said to me. “I am not blowing the baby.” And then she bent over the table and continued to blow the baby.
“You’re lucky you live in California,” I said, knowing how much she appreciated it whenever I begin to list the ways in which she is lucky. “We are enlightened in this state. But you better believe me, Sister, there are plenty of states in the South where you could do hard time for blowing a baby.” She loves it when I call her Sister too.
Her head snapped around in a gratifying fashion and she said; “Then why don’t you hop a plane to Alabama and go fuck yourself!”
“Whoa there, Sister.” I recoiled in mock horror. “I’ve told you before how I don’t want you using filthy language around our child.”
Rochelle was silent.
“I should get my camera and film this, then upload it to UTube. It’d probably go viral overnight. I can just see the headline; Woman Blows Baby!” I don't even own a camera and I couldn't find UTube on the internet if my life depended upon it.
I took her silence to mean that she had surrendered the field to superior forces and in my magnanimity I put my arm around her shoulder and asked innocently; “So does it work?”
“Does what work?”
“Blowing the baby”
“Just look at her, she’s peaceful.” And my wife gazed on our perfect daughter with a look that, I, in my Roman Catholic Catechism scarred brain, imagined the Blessed Virgin fixed upon the Baby Jesus.
And indeed, Vivienne was the picture of contentment. Lying on her back, her legs spread, her wicked red rash temporarily appeased.
“Yeah, I know,” I told her. “I’ve been blowing her for a week. Works like magic.”
She pinned me with a look that she reserves for truly special occasions and said sweetly; “I meant that about Alabama, you should really find somewhere to go and fuck yourself.”
And I left the room with a new bounce in my step.