Dad stayed home with me the first full day I had Jude home from the hospital. I was registered with the homebound program through the school so I could take my finals without actually having to attend classes. Miss Pillsbury would be by later that day to administer two of my tests and the rest she would bring Saturday.

We made it through the first few hours alright, me never having done this before and Dad being sixteen years out of practice. Then around two o’clock, Dad got called into the shop for an emergency. I told him I would be fine and he left promising to be back as quickly as possible.

Now I was nervous. I was here all alone with this little person who was completely dependent on me. No pressure.

“Hey, there,” I said brightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Jude. Daddy’s right here.”

He blinked at me. I tried not to be offended at his lack of response seeing as he was only a few days old.

Not too long after my attempt at communication, Jude began to fuss. A glance at the clock told me it was time for his feeding.

He grew more and more agitated as I fumbled through the process of making up his bottle. At the hospital all I’d had to do was screw a nipple onto a premixed bottle. Now I had to measure out the right amount of the horribly sticky formula powder and make sure I used the right amount of water.

I finally got the measurements right but it wouldn’t mix. Instead of a vaguely milk looking fluid I had cloudy water with chunks. I took another look at the directions on the back of the can. I was supposed to use lukewarm water in order for it to mix properly. I figured I could just pop it into the microwave to fix it. No problem, right?

After thirty seconds on high I learned why everyone told me to not fix formula in a microwave. It only took two seconds for the pain to register in my brain and I dropped the scalding hot glass bottle to the floor where it shattered splashing me with what both looked and smelled like spoiled milk.

Jude was waving his little fists in anger now and I hurriedly grabbed a new bottle from the cabinet. I managed to get it right this time using warm tap water. He sucked the bottle dry in record time and I held him to my chest to burp him. He let out a dainty belch and his eyes began to droop.

I took him down to my room to change his diaper before I laid him down for a nap. I had just undone the side flaps when he started to spit-up.

I panicked thinking he’d choke to death and hurriedly pulled him up to my shoulder where he proceeded to regurgitate all down the back of my clean white shirt. Lovely.

“It’s fine, baby, just get it all out,” I cooed even as I cringed. “Daddy doesn’t care about this old shirt.” It was a lie. I really liked that shirt, but surely spit-up wouldn’t be that hard to get out.

Then I felt it. A warm wetness spread over my chest. In my haste to save my son from an early death by his own vomit I hadn’t redone his diaper. Now I was holding a stark naked baby against my chest. Said baby returned my kindness with urine.

“It’s okay, Daddy was just silly and forgot about your diaper,” I sighed. “It’s totally Daddy’s fault, but he’ll get you cleaned up in just a minute.”

Then he grunted and I really thought I might be ill.

I wasn’t an expert on holding babies so I just did what felt the most secure: one hand across his back and the other under his bottom. Except my son was naked. And now my hand was full of poop.

“Oh, Jude,” I whined. I swear if he’d been able to the kid would have laughed. His eyes practically gleamed.

Now I had to figure out which of these problems I was going to address first. In order to do anything I would have to put my son down and whatever surface I set him on would have to thoroughly cleaned. Or possibly burned.

Before I could make any kind of decision the doorbell rang. I rolled my eyes, telling myself that whoever it was would just have to wait. I was in the middle of a crisis.

Then I heard my dad’s voice call out. Why would Dad ring the bell?

The familiar stomp of his boots on my stairs was followed by the sound of his voice. “Kurt? You down here bud?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I squeaked, laying Jude on my bed. I’d never cared for that comforter anyhow.

I turned to see my Dad and Miss Pillsbury at the bottom of my steps. Dad looked like he was trying not to laugh and Miss Pillsbury looked like she was going to be sick.

“Can I help you?” I snapped, blushing scarlet. Here I was covered in bodily fluids in front of my father and my guidance counselor. I started to adjust my bangs—a nervous habit—then thought better of it. I really needed to wash my hands. And take a shower. And burn everything I was wearing.

“Uh, I-I-I’ll just leave your tests upstairs on the t-t-table,” Miss Pillsbury stammered out before turning on her heel and practically running up the stairs.

“Wait! Aren’t you supposed to stay with me to make sure I don’t use my notes?” I called after her.

“You’re a good boy, Kurt! I trust you to do the right thing!”

Three seconds after she said this I heard the front door slam shut. I looked over at my father who decided he couldn’t contain himself any longer and burst into hyena-like laughter. I waited for him to finish and wipe the tears from his eyes. “Rough day?” he choked out.

“Ya think?” I said icily. “I could really use some help here. I was puked on, peed on and pooped on all in the space of five minutes.”

Dad just laughed again. “Welcome to fatherhood, kiddo.”

I glanced at my child who was now sleeping peacefully. The last hour had been the most stressful of my life and I felt both exhausted and filthy. But I also felt an extreme joy in the fact that that little boy was mine.

“Alright, Grandpa,” I smirked at my Dad. “You clean him up and I’ll clean me up and then we’ll all head upstairs and watch Dirty Jobs.”

“Sounds like a plan.”