Though Laura doesn’t really remember, when I relate the story to her, she concedes she could well have been guilty of her little tantrum. She teases me, saying, “What was a poor girl to do when she couldn't talk?” So here is our story. Of course, babies have only one way to express their unhappiness when they have a need. We as parents rarely know what they want us to know. On this Saturday afternoon, I was home alone with our baby girl. My wife was meeting at the library with her book club. I gave Laura a bottle, tucked her in her crib for her afternoon nap, and settled down to watch a football game. A half-hour later, shrieks emanated from her room. I sat straight up, then hurried to her bedroom. My baby’s face flushed a dark red. It was clear she was distressed.

As I walked toward her crib, a bottle came flying in my direction. I dodged the missile and watched it smash into the wall. It fell to the floor like a duck taken down by a hunter’s shotgun blast. I picked up my sobbing daughter. The poor girl was odoriferous and soaking wet. This situation was indeed a challenge for me. It was a time when only cloth diapers were available. I held my breath as best I could while vapors enveloped me. Grasping a giant safety pin, I pushed, and it opened, but I pricked my finger. Undaunted by my blood, I soldiered on, finally undoing both pins. I gently lifted Laura and zapped the soiled diaper from under her. Carefully, I carried the smelly thing to the toilet and dropped it in, leaving it for my wife and thus demonstrating I could diaper my child. Then I washed my baby girl clean, powdered her, and wrapped her in a clean diaper. She kicked her legs and smiled. As I placed her back in her crib. I glanced over to the corner where her teddy bear sat with, I swear, a sly smile on his furry face.