After all, from their perspective they already have a relatively effective means of conveying their plight, falling back upon the singular universal sign of “somethin’ ain’t right,” the infant wail. This piercing cry lasts for many a year, and still serves as an effective means of dragging me out of bed in dazed slumber to hand my 16 month-old daughter the pacifier from the pile she was sleeping next to.

I sometimes think it’s pretty arrogant of us adults to expect our children to adapt their standard modes of communication to our complicated and occasionally nonsensical spoken language system. It seems to me that our kids have a very good system working for them – just think, if rather than threatening speeches and insinuated nuclear buildups, upset nations simply took the airwaves and just wailed and wailed. Wouldn’t the world eventually come to their aid just to bring back some damn silence so I could get back to sleep because I have a very long day tomorrow? Or rather than making humanitarian appeals through the Red Cross or other charitable agencies in an attempt to gain world sympathy, ailing nations could just crap their diapers so the world would have to clean it up just to avoid the smell?

And this isn’t to suggest that children don’t attempt to meet us halfway and provide different ways to communicate non-verbally. At first we are delighted when they begin to point at things, only to discover that our initial enthusiasm at their newfound ability to dictate what they want wanes considerably when they fall back on the wail when we don’t retrieve whatever it was they were pointing at. And in some rare cases, I’ve heard this leads also led to a different sort of hand gesture.

In any case, our daughter was a firm believer in the infant communi-cause, a freedom fighter as it were, standing resolutely on the battlefield as her comrades around her slowly but surely succumbed to our adult language assault. Oh sure, she gave some false indications of surrender, uttering a “da-da” here and “bitty-bat” there, but I knew she was just manipulating us. And yet, with a single two-letter word hurriedly unleashed in moment of brilliant recognition a few weeks ago, my daughter took her first step across the dividing line and planted her size 4 foot firmly on the soil of adult communication.

“Up.”

And for us, it was a the first triumph in what will be our ultimate victory, her assimilation into the ranks of the verbal communicators. One day, I hope, she too will wage this battle with her children, a war all of us have fought and lost to to adulthood.

Except Fallout Boy – I still have no idea what they are saying most of the time.

It’s cliche, to be sure, but one of the first things that new parents must adjust to is not only the sudden and inescapable fact of being both aware of when your child poops as well as being responsible for the cleanup process (a process that we, as adults, pretty much feel is an “individual responsibility,”) but also beginning to regard lengthy conversations about the frequency, volume and pallor of these “movements” as ordinary topics to be discussed freely.  My wife and I, for example, frequently discuss the “nitty-gritty” (no pun intend) of Justine’s “doings” (sorry), more often than not at the dinner table.

It was never like this before we had children.  Bathroom discussions were, for the most part, strictly limited to the occasional discussion of how awesome it is that men can pee standing up, and how women have have been punished for Eve’s apple-eatin’ ways by being forced to stand in lines several dozen deep at sporting events.  But now, I can’t help but observe and analyze the nuances of my daughter’s early experiences in bowel mastery, and discuss them in frank, no holds barred conversations with my wife and other parents I know.

I’ve noticed over time, for example, that Justine’s habits regarding the actual “function” have changed.  In the few months after she came home from the hospital, it was difficult to discern when she was actually going to the bathroom – the only reliable indicator (beyond the smell) was what I like to call “The Distant” wherein she would be happily staring at something (me, Kim, the cat, Green Bay Packers great Bart Starr) and then suddenly her eyes would drift to gaze longingly at the abyss.  The inevitable then occurred.  Nowadays, it is quite obvious when “nature calls,” indicated by both the grunting and the not-so-subtle change in pallor of her face towards the redder end of the spectrum.  This is usually pointed out by Kim to me as an amusing observation, except of course when Justine is in the tub, in which case the clown music starts playing and we both run around in circles trying to figure out what to do.

I won’t go into details regarding the colorful palettes and densities involved either other than to say that the introduction of solid foods into what was once an all-liquid diet had the effect you might imagine, and has left our Diaper Champ struggling to fulfill it’s anti-odorous missions.

The observations are not particularly disturbing in and of themselves (at least to me) – the issue that tugs at me is that I am willing (and in this case very publicly) to disclose them with other human beings, and not within the confines of a confession booth, which I must admit I haven’t tried, but I wonder whether a priest might reconsider the collar were he forced to listen to it.  The fact that I’ll gladly discuss with my wife, my friends, and the guy who delivers my mail the mundanities of my child’s poop without a second thought brings me to an inescapable conclusion.

I’ve finally fully accepted fatherhood.