The 5 Levels of Dirty Diapers & How to Survive Them

When people dream about having babies, they only think about the fun things, like squeezing their cheeks and using them to practice ventriloquism. They don't spend much time focusing on the tough parts of parenting, specifically changing diapers. From what I've heard, this used to be an easy process. But then 9/11 hit and WHAM!, diapers became more dangerous than ever. That's why, with the help of the Homeland Diaper Advisory Board, I've developed the Dirty Diaper Threat Level Alert System.

This system is designed to help you diagnose the potential threat of each type of dirty diaper and advise on how to prepare for (and handle) each situation. No need to thank me yet—thank me after you've survived a Code Red.

The Dirty Diaper Threat Level Alert System: 
LEVEL 1: Code Green. This condition is declared when there is a low risk of bodily fluids escaping the diaper. Federal departments as well as your immediate household should consider taking the following general protective measures:

1. Keep wipes and spare diapers close.
2. Make sure changing pad is laid out somewhere away from foot traffic.
3. Fake cramp in your diaper-changing hand and use sympathy to get mother-in-law to change it for you.
4. Dispose diaper in any open garbage can or leave it haphazardly on the coffee table until the next time you go into the kitchen to make yourself some bacon.

LEVEL 2: Code Blue. Also known as "A Stinker," this condition is declared when there is no actual evidence of an explosion but there is a general risk of your baby dropping a load based on the terrible smell of her farts. Code Blue farts are toxic and can kill. I've seen a Code Blue take the lives of two doll babies, a Cabbage Patch Kid and one unsuspecting Potato Head. Consider taking the following general protective measures:

1. Use latex gloves to slowly peek in the diaper to make sure there's nothing actually in there. If there is, you may have to declare a Code Yellow or Orange (see below).
2. Remove smell by opening windows or cutting off your nose.
3. Invite mother-in-law over for dinner, but only if she can arrive in next 4 minutes. Hand off baby, run out to pick up pizza. Text her and ask for Code Level before returning. Important Note: Don't forget to use $2-off pizza coupon.

LEVEL 3: Code Yellow. An elevated Code Yellow is declared when there is a significant risk of skid marks in the diaper. This is the type of diaper you offer to change because 1. It's not lethal, 2. It's not messy and 3. It will allow you to use the phrase "I changed the last one" when the big one drops. Consider taking the following general protective measures:

1. Take off favorite sports jersey.
2. Put on surgical mask.
3. Sing Alma Mater fight song to pump you up.
4. Make sure someone's purse is close and open. Dirty diaper + Open purse = practical joke enjoyed by all.

LEVEL 4: Code Orange. A Code Orange is declared when there is a high risk that the diaper is filled with a bomb but remains contained. Signs of a Code Orange include sweating, grunting, crying and foul odors—and that's just from you. The baby, likely embarrassed that she had to drop one in front of everyone in the living room, will pretend like nothing happened. Consider taking the following general protective measures:

1. Also pretend like nothing happened.

LEVEL 5: Code Red. This is also known as a "Nuclear Attack." Slimy particles not only escape from the diaper, they leap and ruin anything within a 5-mile radius. Liked that onesie? Too bad, it's got poop on it. Liked that Green Day poster on your wall? Too bad, it's got poop on it. Liked your forehead? Too bad, it's got poop on it. Liked that 62-inch flat screen TV? Too bad … well, actually, you were wise enough to cover it in 11 layers of plastic and 4 rolls of duct tape to protect it during just such an event. Good for you! Consider taking the following general protective measures:

1. Invest in Hazmat suit.
2. Pray for a miracle.
3. Man up and change that diaper, no matter what is clinging to your forehead. 
4. Take picture and send to your wife while she is at work. She will appreciate it. 
5. And finally, place all material that's fallen victim to a Code Red in a garbage bag, seal tightly, drive to neighboring state and bury it in the backyard of a Yankees fan. (Another practical joke enjoyed by all.)

The truth is, diapers are gross unless they are your kid's. And while I joke, I've changed every type of diaper imaginable, including a Code Erupting Volcano (details of this are too unfit to print). And I've survived—barely. I hope this chart helps you recognize and diagnose the proper threat level of dirty diapers and allows you to survive them, too.

I also hope you've perfected your ventriloquist skills.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm thankful for a lot of things, including great friends, a caring family, loyal blog readers and very, very kind commenters. I asked my girls what they are most thankful for this Thanksgiving, and they dug deep in their hearts and both agreed that it was, without a doubt:

Candy.

Have a wonderful, safe, pie-filled Thanksgiving everyone from all of us here at The Life of Dad!

And, for my cousin who is out of town this year celebrating Thanksgiving with some fine people in Michigan and my other cousin who is eating his turkey in Boston (though I believe both are part of a secret crime-fighting duo called Luchi and The Bear and are on assignment today), I'll be live tweeting the event so they aren't left out. Feel free to follow the #Klemsgiving hashtag to add an extra layer of fun to your Thanksgiving feast.

The Letter Everyone Should Write to Their Loved Ones

Too many things are often left unsaid, like "I love you" or "I appreciate you" or "I admit it, Toy Story 3 made me cry." In the wake of losing my Dad and my sister-in-law, I've been left completely shaken, worried that something could happen to me (like a tragic softball accident where I hit a game-winning grand slam and, upon crossing home plate, I spontaneously combust) and my daughters will be robbed of the opportunity to get to know their big-headed dad.

So I've decided to jot down some important notes that way if, God forbid, something awful happens to me in the near future, my girls will get at least some sense of who I am, who I strive to be and what I value in life. It's an exercise that I now believe everyone should do—whether the letter is to your kids, a spouse, siblings, a childhood friend, Zach Braff or the person who invented tag-free undershirts (seriously, that person is a genius). It may be the hardest thing you do, but—and trust me on this—one day someone else will be forever thankful that you did.

Here it goes:

Dear Ella, Anna and Mia,

If I die tomorrow, I want you to know …

I wanted to name all of you Bacon.

I don't want you to marry anyone named Larry.

I liked hooded sweatshirts before Mark Zuckerberg liked hooded sweatshirts. (The holey, green Adidas one I've worn since high school that your mom has been dying to throw away since we met is proof of that.)

I don't care what you do with my body so long as you don't eat me.

I always wanted to be a superhero, one that could save people when they were in trouble. I also wanted to invent a superhero outfit that didn't involve tights because I hate how tights feel. I hope both qualities are genetic and are in your genes too.

I checked the closets every night for monsters to ensure you were safe.

I ate a healthy diet that mainly consisted of the four major food groups: fruits, vegetables, meats and Nacho Cheese Doritos.

I had two guaranteed highlights of every day: Waking up in the morning to your smiling faces and singing you to sleep each night with beautiful renditions of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and the theme to "Charles in Charge."

I wore the number 5 in little league not because it was the number of legendary Reds catcher Johnny Bench, but because I was the tiniest guy on our team and had to take the tiniest jersey available. Even though I was small, I always played with a big heart.

I played guitar, though I did not play a single song that impressed your mom. (I mean, come on, who doesn't like Jewel?) Must have won her over with my killer good looks.

I made it through life with the help of a lot of amazing friends. I hope you're as lucky in this department as I am. 

I was passionate about a lot of things—writing, Boggle, discrediting e-mail forwards, seeing how many days in a row I can wear the same pair of pants before someone noticed—and it was my passion that drove me to be better at everything I did. That passion included striving to be the best father in the world.

The designated hitter is stupid. Has little relevance here, but it's still an important fact you should know.

I was once on a Bar Game Olympics championship team called "The Tony Danzas." This is true. I have the number 5 jersey to prove it.

I always wanted to build a well-lit library room in the house, filled wall-to-wall with books and house one large, comfortable couch. That way I could read "The Lorax" to you when you were young and "When Your Kid Goes to College: A Parent's Survival Guide" to myself when you were all grown up.

I always chose comfort over fashion, much to the chagrin of your mom (though I would bend on this for only the specialist of occasions).

I don't believe in opening gifts on Christmas Eve until you have finished singing at least an hour's worth of carols.

I went out of my way to recycle so your grandkids wouldn't have to live on big piles of garbage. (You're welcome.) Pay it forward.

I snuggled with you at naptime, not because I had to but because I wanted to.

I performed magic because it always impressed you guys. It was also a sneaky way to get you to "disappear" into the bathroom and go potty before bed.

I rarely bragged about my accomplishments, but I regularly bragged to everyone about how lucky I was to have such smart, kind, caring, funny, beautiful daughters. While I'd like to take credit, those are the same characteristics that caused me to fall deeply in love with your mom.

I loved going to the zoo, watching the giraffes stick out their long tongues and complaining about how bad the elephant house stunk.

I wanted nothing but the best for you girls, even if it meant I had to sacrifice everything (including my bobblehead collection).

And most important, I loved all of you with every molecule of my heart. I woke up every day believing in you, knowing that you'd grow up to be amazing. Whether I get to see it or not, know that I'll always be with you, in your heart, in your soul, watching out for you, protecting you from the monsters in the closet, and bragging to every spirit in heaven about how lucky I was to be a part of your life.

Trust me: Wherever I am, I'm thinking of you and smiling,
Your Dad

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Did Disney Ruin Your Halloween Too?

Thanks to Disney, Halloween is not scary anymore. It's true. Nearly every little girl under the age of 9 turns down the chance to dress as something spooky, like a witch or a ghost or your mother-in-law, and instead chooses to be something cuddly like Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Tinker Bell, Rapunzel or one of the other 800 Disney princesses. And, on the off chance she doesn't want to be a princess, she chooses to be Dora, the friendly neighborhood explorer.

When I asked each one of my girls what they wanted to be this year for Halloween, they responded as follows:

Ella: "SNOW WHITE!"

Anna: "DORA!"

Mia: "BLUB-ER-GUP" (which is 5-month-old speak for "princess")

What a disaster. There's no face paint involved with those costumes. No evil laughs. Nothing that will give you the goose bumps. You're more likely to be scared by a rainbow than you are by my little ladies. I wouldn't be surprised if next year one of them wants to dress up as a hug.

So I made it my mission to add a little bit of scariness to our Halloween festivities by having "The Inaugural Klems Family Scary Mask-Making Night." I made sure to load up on supplies: paper grocery bags large enough to fit over the giant heads of my children, crayons, markers, construction paper, pipe cleaners, bacon (to feast on), paint and anything else around the house that we could find that wouldn't cause their Mom to yell at us.

I waited until a night when my wife was out on the town, likely binge drinking with someone much handsomer than me¹ and I went to work. I weaved the supplies throughout the living room floor and pulled the girls in.

"Let's make some scary, scary masks and then surprise Mom when she gets home. WHO'S WITH ME?"

"WE ARE!" they all shouted, except for Mia who farted in agreement.

Without time to spare, I let them get to work. I offered to help with whatever they wanted. I cut out eye-holes. I cut out big scary teeth to tape to the front of the paper bags. But then Ella, my 4-year-old, stopped me.

"Dad, I don't want to put those teeth on my mask."

"OK hun, what do you want me to cut out for you? A giant creepy red tongue? Some brown, dirty teeth? A black-and-blue eyeball that looks like it's getting CHEWED?"

"Can you cut a pretty smile out of this pink construction paper?"

Long pause.

"Well dear, that's not quite what I had in mind when I said we were making … "

"And can you twist these purple and pink pipe cleaners into arms and hands so I can still hug Mommy when I'm wearing the mask?"

Another long pause.

"But your goal isn't to hug Mom when she gets home, it's to scare her."

"Don't worry Dad, we're still going to yell 'BOO!'"

So I turned to my 2-year-old Anna and asked her if she made a scary mask.

"Daddy, my mask is really scary."

"That's GREAT Anna! I'm so excited. Are those red blobs on your mask blood oozing out?"

"No Daddy, those are hearts. And over here I drew a unicorn."

I wanted to shake my head in disgust. These girls were not only soft, but they were waving their softness in my face like a badge of honor. And unless you have a fear of pink or suffer from Unicornaphobia, you will be able to walk through my house without spotting a single scary thing (unless you count my wife's credit card bill that's laying on our coffee table).

Just as I thought the night was a total bust, my wife came home from painting the town red². My pink, purple and heart-covered monsters quickly put on their masks and hid behind the couch. As my wife walked into the room, they jumped and yelled "BOOOOOO!" and erupted with laughter. I'd like to think my wife was a little scared. She probably was, though it likely had less to do with the masks and more to do with the 10lb diaper I'd neglected to change off my 5-month-old.

Maybe I'll never get the kids to dress like a monster or vampire, but I'll continue to try to get them to be a little scarier. In the meantime, I'll just enjoy my little princesses and explorers and hope that one day I get the chance to punch Disney in the face.

Happy Halloween.

¹ OK, this is obviously not true. There's no one handsomer than me.

² "Painting the town red" is actually a euphemism for "Visiting her sick sister in the hospital." But before you take her side, think about this: She kicks puppies. Hard.

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Dads vs. Toys: Which Do Kids Prefer?

My house is overflowing with Toys. Dolls, blocks, doctor kits, Tinkerbell phones, Mr. Potato Heads, magnetic letters for the fridge—you name it, I've stepped on it. Our house holds so many Toys that we are considering buying a second house just so we have somewhere to live.

But Toys and Dads aren't really that different, when you think about it. We share a lot of the same traits and characteristics. We spend countless hours showering kids with our love and affection only to be stepped on, tossed around, bitten and ignored the minute Yo Gabba Gabba comes on the tube. In fact, the more I started to analyze it, the more I realized that Dads and Toys are cut from the same mold. Here's proof:

Toys are awesome.
Dads are awesome.

Toys are loud.
Dads are loud.

Toys let kids drool on them.
Dads let kids drool on them.

Toys protect kids from the bogeyman.
Dads protect kids from the bogeyman.

Toys are often left on the couch.
Dads are often found on the couch.

Toys have a holiday (Christmas).
Dads have a holiday (Father's Day).

Toys have a movie (Toy Story).
Dads have a movie (Field of Dreams).¹

Toys cause Mom to yell "I told you to clean your mess up!"
Dads cause Mom to yell "Seriously Brian, you are the grown up here."

Toys are expensive.
Dads are … well, this is a bad example because Dads are cheap. In fact, Dads are the cheapest things on the planet. (Just ask my wife.)

Toys are generally found around the house naked.
Dads are generally found around the house naked.

Toys are left behind when kids go to college.
Dads are left behind when kids go to college.

Toys create fond memories and stories that kids will always cherish.
Dads create fond memories and stories that kids will not only cherish, but also pass on to their kids through their words, actions and love.

I'm sure there are plenty more similarities between Dads and Toys and it probably doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize they both have value in kids' lives (unless you are trying to create a specific formula that proves it, in which case, it probably would take a rocket scientist.), but there is one key difference:

Dads cure boo-boos. Toys do not.

And that's why Dads are better.<sup>2


1</sup> "Is this Heaven?" "It's Iowa." "I could have sworn it was Heaven." "Is there a Heaven?" "Oh yes, it's where dreams come true." "Then maybe this is Heaven." (Don't be ashamed of your Dad Tears, fellas.)
² Suck on that, Toys. 


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Parenting and Stress

Stress is the worst. It causes your hair to change colors. It causes you to feel so sick to your stomach that you can't eat and yet, somehow, gain weight at the same time. It makes you want to haul off and slap someone whether they deserve it or not—and let's face it, they deserve it.

Before I was a Dad the only stressors I had in my life were picking a lunch destination, remembering my wedding anniversary, wondering when my high school band would reunite (Optimus Prime 4-ever!), hoping the college video of me dancing to N'Sync's "Bye Bye Bye" never surfaced on YouTube, keeping my softball on-base % high enough to satisfy SABREmetric fans and watching the Cincinnati Reds bullpen implode.

That was it.

I wasn't worried about much because, quite frankly, I didn't have much to worry about. Most everything else seemed fairly trivial. I led a fairly easy life.

Now that I'm a Dad, my whole life is a giant hairy ball of stress. From the minute I wake up to the minute I go to bed, all I do is worry:

Did I set the alarm early enough to get the kids to the sitter's and me to work on time?

Did I already snooze the allotted three times?

Did I actually wash my hair or just imagine that I did? I honestly can't remember.

Did I brush the kids' teeth?

Did I brush my teeth?

Is it OK that I'm the type of Dad that would let them stand in a bucket?

Is my wife walking around in a bra because she's into me or because our 4-month-old just spit up all over her shirt?

Should I take that slap as a "our 4-month-old just spit up all over her shirt"?

Is eating that Dorito off the floor a lesson to my kids not to be wasteful, or is it just disgusting?

Am I caffeinated enough to make it until the kids' bedtime?

Do I have enough Doras recorded on the DVR? Any space left for "The Big Bang Theory"?

Did I post any recent pictures of my kids on Facebook?

Are the pictures getting a reasonable amount of "likes"?

Will they get hurt? Can I keep them healthy?

Did we make a birthday card for Aunt Jennie?

Does the baby need a diaper change?

Did I make something for dinner that isn't named macaroni and cheese and the kids will actually eat?

Did that guy just see me rocking out to the Tangled soundtrack? Oh my god, did he notice that my kids aren't in the car and that it's just me?

Do we really need to stop on the side of the highway or can she "hold it" until we get home?

Will my kids get into good colleges?

Will I be able to afford their weddings?

Am I really cut out to be a parent?

Am I setting a good example for my kids?

Does the Karate Kid Crane Kick really work?

Will my kids grow up to be good, smart, kind, happy, respectful people who will take care of their old man when he starts to lose his mind?

Did I kiss them goodnight?

At any given moment of the day, I'm worrying about at least half of these—usually more. But you know what? I wouldn't trade the worry for anything in the world. A close friend without kids once told me there are two nuggets of truth every parent offered him about becoming a parent: 1) It will drastically change your life forever and 2) It's the best decision you'll ever make.

And they are right.

I couldn't imagine going back to my stress-free life. I certainly miss hanging out with the guys playing epic games of Halo, and then coming home and bragging about it to seduce my wife (only to find out that Halo-domination doesn't rate highly on her list of turn-ons—I will never understand women). And I try to sneak out occasionally to relive the stress-free "glory days." But the best stress relief is a good hug from the people who count on you day in and day out to carry the burden of stress so they don't have to.

That makes all the stress in the world worth it.

Of course, it sure wouldn't hurt if I received an e-mail from my college buddy Justin assuring me that the N'Sync video has been destroyed, set on fire, and buried at sea. Or, at the very least, edited to include the disclaimer "We were drunk."¹

¹ We were also drunk when we watched the all-day marathon of O-Town's "Making the Band," when we bought those sweet Hawaiian shirts and anytime we used the word "gnarly." I swear. You wouldn't believe how many Zimas we could pound.

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