Our Relaxing Trip to the Library, By Mike

It was time for a family trip to the library, an enchanting journey through the late spring twilight to our neighborhood gathering place. I carefully strapped Quinn into the bicycle trailer, helped Madeline with her bike helmet and adjusted her seat, and queued up the iPod to the spot where Maya wanted to listen so that she could more easily jog alongside. I also forgot to bring a diaper bag. We made our glorious journey through dappled shadow and piercing sunlight, then lolled on the floor of the reading room for some playtime. That's when Quinn pulled himself up on a reading table and gave the room his thousand-yard stare, the glare that says, "I'm concentrating," the focus that shouts, "Don't bother me," the warning sign that broadcasts, "Quinn can't come to the phone right now, he's busy filling his diaper with poo." Filling your diaper is fine, except when you don't have a spare diaper. I whisked him off to the library men's room, which as a liberal bastion in a liberal city has a changing table for dads. Liberal doesn't necessarily mean smart, though. The diaper changing table can't be lowered unless you move a 50-pound metal trash can, with one arm, since the other arm is busy holding an infant as far from your nose as possible. Once you move the trash can, you can no longer open the door to the outside, but more about that in a minute. We cleaned up, with scratchy paper towels wetted in the sink. From there Quinn had to go commando, pants back on but no diaper underneath. Brilliant recovery on my part, I thought. Back out to the playroom. Just enough time to drool on a book about ducks, and try to bite a book about cars. Then he pulled himself up on another table, and once again stared off into the distance with that look that says, "What's about to take place in my lower regions is entirely natural no matter how bad it smells." I froze, but only for a second, because it was hero time. I once again whisked him to the handy men's room changing table, which is even harder to lower past the 50-pound trash can when you are not only holding a stinky child, but trying to avoid squishing any interior contents out onto the exterior. I cleaned him up with more scratchy towels, then, rinsed the dirty pants out in the sink. My apologies to fellow library patrons. But what could Quinn wear now? More brilliance: I took off his shirt, put his legs through the arm holes and made the shirt into pants. He looked pretty good, actually, all Gap Kids down below and all hillbilly redneck up top. The changing table happens to have a strong hinge, to snap it back into place when forgetful dads leave. I had, ironically, also forgotten about the hinge, so when I lifted Quinn off, I nearly killed him when the corner of the table flipped up and smacked him on the head. No permanent damage done, though. So I flung open the door to the main library to demonstrate my triumph, only to forget about the metal trash can I had moved right behind the door in order to unfold the changing table. The door smacked the can, the can smacked the floor, and even the Internet surfers with headphones on at the far end of the room jumped out of their seats. It goes without saying that while the girls gathered their books, I waited in the lobby with Amazing Shirtless Diaperless Boy. On the way home, I told the girls how proud I was that they want to read, that they were getting ahead on their homework, and that they were smart enough to check out using a fake family name.