A vast chunk of my day is spent in the endless pursuit of monitoring my child’s diaper state. Diapering. Wiping. RE-Diapering! What am I, some sort of re-diapering wipe-amatron? As this is seriously eating into my 2010 projected “Not Covered In Toddler Waste Up To My Elbows” time (Hopes for the Future, A Projected Time Strategy, pp. 203-408), the decision was made to nudge the child in the direction of using more socially acceptable methods. Any approved receptacle (toilet, potty, sauce pot, lilac bush) would do. A struggle began. Logic was the first casualty, crushed by the mighty toddler system of debate that has stymied the forensic arts lo these many years. Rewards were also useless. So fell pleading, lying, deception and the whole host of time honored fatherly parenting strategies. Bloodied and beaten, I was near giving up when I pulled out my ace in the hole. I refused to re-diaper. That’s right. Ball is in your court now, 2 year old! The immediate effect was successful but in an unexpected way. Dad’s not up to the task. He’s lost his edge. Old man can’t hack it anymore. Well, if you want something done, you have to to it yourself, she realized. Every couple seconds, the child was off to find some place to stash her waste, and every one of them approved by the sanctioning waste disposal bodies. The nudery that I’ve encouraged has also led to toys being put away, and a 10% decrease in the “re-stashing” of my personal belongings. This phenomenon requires further observation, but I hypothesize that nudist camps are the most organized places on earth. I should ditch my pants and see if they have some elegant system for book organization. Some Nudie Decimal System. More as this unfolds.