The Gemini Diaries

I lived on a cul-de-sac growing up in Montgomery and was fortunate to be surrounded by boys about my age. While hanging out with kids your age is fun enough, we were also lucky enough to have at our disposal a vast track of undeveloped land behind my friend's house and a bird sanctuary in my own back yard. We explored these unmapped areas endlessly and had the best time imaginable just being kids. One of my buddies on Whippoorwill Court was a guy named Brad. Though we went to different schools, he and I were great friends until I moved away in 10th grade. The one thing I'll always remember about Brad was that he wanted, more than anything in the world, to be a professional rodeo rider. He knew this fact from the time he was a small boy and never once wavered from it. I've never in my life seen a kid with more toy farm animals, toy guns and such an outsized enthusiasm to show all of these things off at every opportunity. He also had an unsettling interest in lassoing the other kids in the neighborhood which was great fun until my other friend's younger brother got whiplash as he was pretending to be the runaway horse - but that's a different story. The point is, if ever there was anyone cut out for the rodeo, it was Brad.

I don't know if Brad ever made it to be a real cowboy, but as someone who has had the rodeo life thrust upon him uninvited, I wish I could go back and counsel Brad to steer clear. I'd say, brother, put down those toy guns and that faux dip wad of Big League Chew because while the rodeo may sound glamorous at first, let me tell you something . . . it's hard, tiresome work and it gets old real quick. You see, the Changing Table Rodeo came to our little house about two months ago. And it hasn't left

If you've ever seen the calf-roping portion of the rodeo then you've witnessed the closest approximation to the Changing Table Rodeo at the Smith house, minus the rope. From the second our children hit the changing table, they transform into baby wildebeests whose sole goal in life is to get as far away from you as possible as quickly as possible. Turn them on their back, they want to be on their stomach. Put them on their stomach, they want to crawl to the edge and threaten to jump or turn around and head for the changing table implements (wipes, Desitin, etc.) Aim them toward the changing table implements and they want to scatter these tools to the wind. They are seriously crazy. And crazy strong too.

It's hard. It's tiring. You get dirty in the kind of dirt that you don't want to get dirty in. (Hint - this kind of dirt is accompanied by the distinct aroma of the stables behind the rodeo). It is simply not appealing as a lifestyle choice. But having lived this lifestyle for 2 months now, I do have a greater appreciation for and perspective on the the calf-roping challenge. I used to think it was a brutal and inhumane event that I hated to watch because it made me sad, but now I'm thinking maybe those cowboys are just a little misunderstood. Perhaps, they really love those little calves and just need to keep them from rolling around in their own filthy diapers and they've just figured out a really fast way to get down to business. So I've picked up some tips:

Things I need in order to be a better diaper changer:

• A horse because I think that would be just distracting enough to keep the children still for 22 seconds
  
• The raw hand speed and eye coordination that those cup stacking kids have. This couldn't hurt.
  
• Some cowboy boots with spurs that clink when you walk - you know, just to set the mood and let the kids know there's a new sheriff in town.
  

So while LeeAnn and I don't love our new profession, we do believe that if we're going to be living it, we might as well make the environment suit the event. So this post is sort of an explanation to our neighbors, who have no doubt pondered why we're constructing a dirt arena changing table in our front yard. Next week, the grandstands are being built to seat the throngs that will certainly come in awe at this spectacle of man vs beast. No doubt the cotton candy and rattlesnake bar-b-q vendors will soon follow as will a healthy crop of carnies hocking their wares.

Break out your chaps and ten-gallon hats, Buckhead. The rodeo's come to town.