I beat feet, hitching Imogen further up onto my hip and cradling her little head soothingly as I followed Rosie through the hive of activity that was the kitchen. “I apologize in advance, sweetheart,” I breathed close to her ear. “I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but Rosie’s right; I guess I have to learn some time.”
“Yeah, you do,” Atlas’s deep voice agreed from behind me.
I swiveled my head. “What are you doing?”
“Watchin’,” he confirmed. “Wouldn’t miss this for all the cider in the Shamrock.”
“Danny,” Rosie drawled in a warning tone.
“What?” he asked, like butter wouldn’t melt. “I may be able to help the useless twat. I got two girls, ain’t I?”
We walked into the living room, and I headed toward the couch where Rosie was setting down Imogen’s diaper bag.
Atlas went straight to the armchair and sat his ass down, then with a cocky grin, he propped his boots up on Mam’s coffee table, laced his fingers together, and rested them on his stomach.
I shot him a pleading look and mouthed,Help.
He just sat there with a stupid grin on his face, ready to watch me go down.
“Lay her on her back and take her diaper off,” Rosie urged.
Gently, I laid Imogen on the couch, took my seat, and then, tipping my head back, I sent up a silent prayer to God and the angels to help me get through the next five minutes of my life.
Lowering my eyes, I slipped Imogen’s little pink wooly pants off and peeled away the tabs of her Millie Moon diaper, eyeing the little cartoon owls on them. Then, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I pulled back the front of her diaper with trembling fingers.
The stench that hit me was so fucking violent that I thought I’d been gassed. “Oh God,” I gagged, recoiling as I blinked back tears. “What the actual fuck?”
Atlas choked a laugh out.
“Baba,” Imogen babbled.
“It’s just baby poop,” Rosie berated me gently. “She can’t help it.”
“It smells like she’s got a dead animal living up there,” I protested, glancing up at Rosie. “D’ya think she needs to see a doctor ‘cause that ain’t normal?”
Atlas snickered.
“Oh my God, Donovan,” Rosie said exasperatedly. “Get the wipes out and clean her up.”
Grimacing, I grabbed the wipes from the bag, extracted one from the packet, and very gingerly began to clean shit off my daughter’s ass. “It’s the sticky type,” I whined, trying not to balk.
Atlas cackled. “You missed a bit.”
“Fuck off,” I bit back.
The fucker choked back another laugh.
Rosie crouched beside me, her chin almost touching my shoulder. “Just take your time and make sure you get in all thelittle crevices. If you leave any behind, her little fairy may get infected.”
My eyes snapped up to look at her incredulously. “Fairy?”
“It’s what our family’s always called a baby girl’s hoo-ha,” Atlas explained.
I pulled Imogen’s legs up, swiped at some hidden shit that had somehow squelched up her back, and cringed.
“You have to get in there, Donovan,” Rosie snapped. “Jesus, she needs you to get her clean. Stop being a fucking baby.” Her voice softened, and she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Just take your time and concentrate on what you’re doing. You won’t hurt her as long as you’re gentle.”
I did as she instructed and carefully cleaned my daughter’s ass like I was performing delicate brain surgery, not scraping poop off a baby.
