Schrödinger’s Poop and Lessons of Fatherhood

A shower thought on how a thirty-two-year-old grows more with his seven-month-old daughter.

What’s under the diaper? Photo by Madalyn Cox on Unsplash

It was last week when, while having our dinner on the bed in front of our newly-bought Samsung TV blasting out the final season of The Exorcist, my wife, Surabhi, and I heard a slow-roll banging.

Given the premise of a horror show running, it might have been spooky to anyone else. But I, like a proud father, knew the source and was smiling devilishly.

I looked at Surabhi comically and teased, “You know where that came from, don’t you?”

She replied with concern, “Check her diaper. Quick!”

And this is where I put a stop to her motherly instinct. I knew what had happened. I could smell it. But Diti, our daughter, takes her time to eject her payload. The first toot might be the loudest, but it’s only a herald of yellowness yet to come.

So I grabbed my wife’s shoulders, stared directly into her mocha eyes, and uttered the most fantastical analogy I’ve ever come up with:

“Look, we’re only a few morsels away from wrapping up. And it’s not like her diaper’s going to be full, anyway. Think of it as Schrödinger’s Poop. Unless we take a peek, the poop will either be there or won’t. Doing so, however, will solidify whatever is or isn’t.”

That made her laugh (one of the very few things that swells my chest with happiness).

Now, dear reader, don’t take us for inattentive parents. We always rush whenever the herald of yellowness beckons. But this time, it was different. Diti was unbothered and rather enjoying her process. And as you just read, we were about to finish supping.

There’s a lesson here—or at least a lesson in the sense that I learnt something to my disadvantageous advantage—that I’ll come back to, but before that, let’s look at how this journey has been shaping up so far.

The Coming, Daydreamt but not Prepared

Fatherhood was a surprise to me. I always knew I wanted a daughter, but I didn’t know what to expect from myself in these worn-out shoes that many fathers, including my own, have walked in before.

I had some ideas. You know that nagging at the back of your head that gets ahead of itself and makes elaborate daydreaming plans of what’s to come? Mine supplied vivid images of me frolicking with my yet-unnamed pea-sized daughter.

When I first heard her cries, my knees gave way. I’ll never forget that moment when the nurse asked if we wanted to see her face. That warble of a wail will sit warmly in my heart for the rest of my days. It is, however, only second to the most unimaginably beautiful sound that gives food to my soul: peals of her laughter.

It was a few weeks later, though, when my daydreams of father-daughter moments came crashing. Holding her in my hands, I did not know what to say. My mind, a constant-running commentary of opinions, went unusually quiet. That’s when Surabhi stepped in with an idea that I’ve been running through even now: Talk to her about your day—the work you’ve done, the books you’ve read, the games you’ve played.

I was unsure at first, but the more I talked to my daughter about sections of manuscripts I had to edit, the chapters of Stephen King’s Fairy Tale I finished, or the errands I ran in Kingdom Quest II, the more I found her eyes fixated on what I had to say.

Her interest in whatever I rambled, even when talking to my wife—the slow head turns and the transfixed gaze—made me feel more potent a storyteller than I ever found myself to be.

It wasn’t just limited to these talks, however.

Small Doses of Victory

Our daughter’s attention span is limited to the next bling that flashes across her. I know for a fact now that the magpie inside her takes more interest in shiny things. (Although, and the birder in me wants to make this clear despite anecdotal evidence, corvids are not like Tamatoa from Disney’s Moana going “SHINY!” at everything that glints.)

But there is a beautiful, velvety quality to the attention she bequeaths you when your antics catch her whimsy. Those liquid eyes have a universe of curiosity within them. They hunger to know. They want to drink up the very fabric of whatever sits in front of their vicinity.

I know, I know. I’m “anthropomorphizing” a baby’s teensy curiosity that wanes away the instant you flash something, say my mechanical watch, in front of her. But you can’t help, can you? It’s magical. It’s whimsical. It’s what I love to do the most.

(A side note: Using “anthropomorphizing” as a way to associate adult actions with a child is an extension of a running joke between me and my wife that began with our first daughter, Ginny, a shih-tzu mix, when we’d humanize her behavior.)

And so, with all the calm vested in me, I have started to be patient in drawing her attention. It comes in bouts, but it wins my heart in an instant. I read to her, currently it’s Stephen Fry’s Odyssey and Samantha Harvey’s Orbital—two books of voyages across the vastness of oceans, one Mediterranean, the other outer space.

I know she can’t read. I know my words don’t hold any meaning. But when her face lights up when I open a page, and when she listens to me with rapt attention, I say, who cares if she understands? I get to read my favourites while she gets to listen to me yapping. And sometimes, she chimes in.

This patience has started to pay off in wildly different ways, too.

When it comes to wearing clothes, Diti loves to speak her mind in protest, no matter who’s the designated stylist of the day. But lately, and with copious help from her mother and mine, she has started to tolerate my whistles and faces as I drape her in blooming colours. It’s a work in progress, but I’ll take it as progress, nonetheless.

And with semisolid food, I love that she takes after me with a preference for sourness. Getting her to eat is a showdown between our wits. Our food often goes tepid as we wait for her to finish first. Not a problem, though. We sing. We fly planes on buses whose wheels take off. We imitate Asian Koels. We mock-eat, and sometimes actually eat, to build her interest. And then she complies with a little smile. Every second of this charade is worth it.

One final point before we circle back. I was initially unsuccessful in getting my daughter to pee when we started training her for doling out her few milliliters in the washroom. But slowly—and with many dances, tantrums, head-banging, cries for mother dear, and hair-snatching—we both found our rhythm in front of the toilet bowl.

What’s In the Diaper?

Confession time. One of my regrets in this new role I’ve come to love is that—and I didn’t know this about myself—I can neither stand the texture of my baby’s incredible excreta nor their stink, which is a distinct blend of her gooey greatness and the diaper she wears.

I gag uncontrollably. I dry heave. I fail to even look in her general direction. But Diti? She breaks up a cheery smile as if mocking me for running away from her “best” creations.

Sadly, and perhaps to some benefit, I’ve Pavloved myself into a corner. The hint of her diaper’s otherwise bubbly scent always makes me double-check in doubt, especially when a well-formed toot finds its way in a mellifluous F major glory. That scent unwelcomely lingers in my sinuses, but it makes me cautious about whether she’s pooped.

So far, I’ve got a score of guessing right 27 times out of 35 (yes, I’m competing here). Not bad for a budding father, won’t you say?

At least I can depend on my senses for when the next fart concerto plays our way during dinner. Ah, the joys of fatherhood!