ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
There was a drawer full of nappies, as far as local father Tom Hernandez could remember, but now all he can find is a singular, solitary swim nappy that’s the only thing standing between him and a total faecal meltdown.
A faecal meltdown occurs when an un-toilet-trained child defecates directly onto their clothes due to the lack of a nappy to catch it. For a situation to become meltdown-adjacent, serious problems in the supply chain must have occurred. For a meltdown to happen, the worst possible outcome has materialised.
This grim reality is not lost on Tom, who has now identified that he is in the midst of an emergency situation. He has only a few options left.
Does he put the swim nappy on and head to the shops? Does he ask ‘the mother’ to collect some on the way home? No. That time is gone. He’s on his own.
If he were one of those people who have money to throw in the bin, he could summon an international student on an electric pushbike to pedal to the supermarket for him, collect the nappies, and pedal over to his rented 56sqm shitbox on Rue de Colon. He could do that, but he’d rather gamble on a meltdown than support “those bastards” at Uber et al.
He could put the child outside without a nappy, but even the youngest baby is entitled to dignity. Nappies are what separate us from the great apes. A baby is not a dog. A baby is a baby, thinks Tom.
Time is passing, and all he’s done so far is think of excuses. No, he’ll have to go himself. Fuck it.
It’s before 9 on a Wednesday, and the streets are filled with city workers headed to the office. Tom has his child, of 19 months, strapped to him, and he weaves in and out. The older gentlemen at the bus stop shake their heads at a man wearing a baby harness. The child must have two dads, they think. No time for that. Tom heads into the chemist and braces himself. Oh no, they only have the fancy plastic-free nappies here, and only ones that are a size too big.
It’s a small price to pay for salvation. $49.99 for 24 nappies. The numbers on the EFTPOS machine blink at him. Sorry, it says. No Amex. Try your other maxed-out card. Fuck this, he says to himself again. I’m going to Woolies.
He felt the baby tense twice in quick succession, then the unmistakable scent of digested banana and chicken nuggets filled the lift.
The Walls of Jericho had been breached. He had to find nappies, find a baby change room, and restore order to his morning. And do it now.
More to come.
