I was surprised at the weight of the small body I was holding out in front of me.  He looked back at me balefully...if you could say that about a six-month old.  He was wiggling around too much.  Below him, centered in the crib was the diaper.  I'd managed to get it off.  It was pretty full.  Did I say this wasn't my child?  I don't have children.  I'm a virgin when it comes to diapers.  So far I've managed to get baby poop smeared on his bottom, on his feet and on his left knee.  Don't ask.  It takes two hands to hold him.  If I set him down there will be poopie foot prints all over the pale blue sheets.  There are cute little green puppies printed on them.  I don't want to get them dirty.  I could hold him with one hand if I clutched him to me, but I'm wearing white jeans.  I have a date later.  And nothing to change into.  It smells.  Did I mention that?  And how did he manage to get that brown footprint on the wall behind the crib?  I should be able to do this.  I have an estrogen infused body.  This is suppose to be intuitive, isn't it?  Or is that motherly instinct thing just another pack of lies? Of course, this is Jessie's baby.  Jessie is my friend.  There is no blood tie, so maybe the estrogen doesn't kick in the same way as it would for your own.  He has a name.  Carl.  Who names tiny cute babies Carl is beyond me, but there it is.  Carl should be the name of a german bartender. It's actually Jessie's dad's name.  Carl is getting heavier.  He's sagging down closer to the cute puppies.  His little legs are beginning to flail.  Yes, that's the exact word.  Flail.  Poop just flew off his little toe unto the right pocket of my jeans.  I am starting to sweat.  My hands are quivering.  Screw the sheets.  I'll toss them in the washer with my jeans.  And his tiny tee shirt. And that smudged teddy bear. Just as I lower him gently down next to the diaper I discover why Jessie warned me to keep his penis covered. Sweet!