The Crotch Matrix

Buttons. They'll be the death of me.

That's buttons on baby pajamas, that is. I can handle a lot. I've put up with a boss whose development seems frozen at 15-years-old for two years, for example. But pajama buttons put me over the edge, particularly when the cute little guy throws cuteness out the window and sets it to "white-hot rage" at 5:30 AM.

It's not buttons per se. It's a combination of buttons, hands, kicking feet, morning sluggishness and morning blindness. Sometimes he's an angel who waits patiently while I change is diaper. But that only happens when he's wearing his PJs with the zippers. When he wears his button PJs, all hell breaks loose.

Not too long ago I'd had a pretty typical day--9 to 5 W2 job b.s., moving business-related stresses, etc. But none of that really got to me. These last few years have taught me to quit being a whiner and be a man. What I used to think of as "crises" I now think of as mere pains-in-the-butt. So, when I got home and Judie was working on dinner, she asked me to give the little guy a bath.

We had lots of splish-splashy fun, and while I got soaked, I didn't mind. Nothing is more fun than watching Joe have fun.

But when I dried him off and tried slipping him into his PJs, fun time was over. Feeling all clean and still a little bit slippery, he thought he would just jump off the changing table and take off naked down the hall. Now, he can't actually do that yet, and I'm encouraged by his fearlessness (I personally never learned how to escape my crib, I'm told), but physics is physics, kid. Newton's Laws apply to you. If you squirm your way off the changing table, you WILL brain yourself on the floor.

Anyway, I pulled out the only PJs within arm's reach because I had to hold him down on the table. They were button PJs. By now, the formerly angelic little boy is arching his back and screaming. Not "crying," as in "Please feed me" or "Please explain what is happening, Daddy," but SCREAMING. My newly robust babese translation skills interpreted these screams as (and think of "The Exorcist" here) "RELEASE ME, MEAT SACK, OR I WILL KILL YOU."

I managed to slip the PJs under him and get one arm into a sleeve before he knew what was happening. He looked me right in the eye and shouted (in his language) "How DARE you!" I snapped my fingers and said "Hey!" That usually stuns him for a second, and it did this time, so I slipped a leg into the PJs.

Joe arched his back and twisted a la "The Exorcist" again. To be completely honest, I peed my pants a little bit. It was freaky. The kid can't walk unassisted, but he can apparently levitate.

I managed to get his other arm in, and then the other leg, but I made a fatal mistake. I started buttoning the PJs from the top. I'd gotten three buttons down when he kicked both legs out of the PJs and then laughed. He LAUGHED.

Look, I love this kid beyond all expectation, but right then I could have slid him across the hardwood floor down the hall and into the living room. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction, though.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and recommitted myself to the project. That's when I noticed that he'd learned a couple of other things: #1, he learned how to undo his diapers, and #2, he...how shall I put this...learned that he has a "special little toy in his pants." There he was, PJs half off diaper askew, grabbing "little Joe," a huge smile on his face.

"Uh, no, buddy," I said, unsure how to proceed. This was a conversation I expected to have with him in, oh, about twelve years. Now I've got to give him a course in Theology of the Body before he reaches his first birthday?

I grabbed his "business hand," and flung it away. He didn't react well to handus interruptus, so I double-timed it. Have you ever had to put a diaper on an infant while holding his dirty, sinful hands, AND tried to put PJs on? You practically need to be Vishnu.

By now I was fighting back my own tears. I'd buttoned the top few buttons and most of the ones down the legs, but then there was "the crotch matrix." After millions of years (or thousands, depending on your reckoning) of child-rearing, it shocks me that we still have complicated button arrangements on childrens' clothing. Is this leg button supposed to connect with the crotch button? Or does it go to the other leg?

My hands weren't cooperating. Joe is bucking and twisting and screaming, and I've somehow turned two PJ legs into one big sack. It looked like he was sewn into a sleeping bag with two little footies at the bottom. No, that wasn't right, I thought. So, I popped them all off and started over. This time I managed to connect a mid-leg button to a belly button area button.

Can I say "button" one more time???

That's when Judie came in. "Need me to take over?" she asked.

Without a word I let go of the bunched up fabric and baby in my hand and headed off toward the liquor cabinet.

So, that's my life. Defeated by the crotch matrix.