Never Trust A Man Who Refuses To Change A Nappy
I still remember the first nappy I ever changed. I was making an absolute mess of it — alternately trying to sooth and struggle with my 16-hour-old son while he got pinker and angrier, excruciatingly aware of the fact that probably everyone else on the ward could hear him. Eventually, a nurse took pity on me.
“Don’t worry — he’s going to cry,” she assured me, scooping up both of his even-then-chubby calves up in that one-handed pincer grip all parents quickly get to know, then singing to him with that complete lack of self-consciousness you also (hopefully) develop after about six months. Then she showed me how to do it properly — the one-way swipe, the one-handed fold — and demanded that I do it again. And then again. And after that, I knew how to change a nappy.
Changing nappies, let’s be honest, is probably the easiest thing about having a baby. It’s easier than trying to rock one back to sleep in the middle of the night, or work out why it just won’t stop screaming, or (I’m assuming) breast-feed one on demand for months and months and months, while also dealing with all of the above. It’s quick, easy, and (especially if you’re not squeamish about poo) probably the simplest thing you can consistently do, as a dad, make things a tiny bit easier for the woman in your life who’s already done the really hard bit. Whatever the division of labour in your house, basic decency demands you do it at least half the time.
So what are we to make of the men who refuse to do it?
Hard-right Tory MP Jacob Rees-Mogg, for instance for instance, once admitted (to fellow Brexit fantasist Nigel Farage, on live radio), that he’s probably never changed a nappy, despite having six children. In Rees-Mogg’s defence, he’s apparently left it up to the nanny — who he calls ‘nanny’ — but against his defence, that is a terrible defence. Does he literally ring a little bell or something every time the telltale grunting of an epic pants-filler starts, or has he never even spent enough time with his children for that to be a consideration? I’m sure he’s busy, but has he never once been sitting with one of his gurgling, cooing progeny, and gone ‘Don’t worry darling/nanny, I’ll do it this time’? Has he really never felt the joy of seeing little Sixtus’s* face curl into a smile as the delighted little chap fountains piss into the air, all over the changing table and his own onesie? Has he never gasped in dismay at an absolute horrorshit or sighed in relief when one that smells apocalyptic turns out to be the size of a Malteser?
According to Rees-Mogg himself, the answer to these questions is No, No, No, No and No — and so I ask again, what are we to make of him? Is he lazy? A coward? A man with no consideration or empathy for others, or desire to bond with the tiny versions of himself he’s brought into the world? It’s a bit harsh, but I’m going to say that the answer to these questions is Yes, Yes and Yes — he is all of these things. He wants to be trusted with the running of a country, and he can’t even be bothered to wipe his own children’s arses. He wants you to think he can clean up the mess his party’s created, but he’s scared to even deal with a baby-sized amount of poo. He, and men like him, cannot be trusted.
Oh, and if that nurse is reading this, I’d like to say thanks. I’ve done about two thousand of them now, and I’m loads better at it.
*For the non-British, yes, Rees-Mogg actually named his sixth child Sixtus.
