“Ohps. I think he just pooped.”
“Uhhhh… it’s fine. Throw him in his seat and I’ll change him when I get to the gym.”
And off. we. went. If it had been 5 years in the past, and the first kid had pooped, I would have had that diaper changed post-haste. There would have been no poop smooshing my sweet cherub’s cheeks. That wouldn’t have been prudent. But on this particular day and this particular time, mama had bigger crap to deal with than a little deuce in the dipe. Like getting the kids off to their learning institutions so they could go change the world. ‘Cause kindergarten is the new junior high, don’t you know? Make them late and you can pretty much say sayonara to any sort of perfect attendance certificate for their scholarship file.
All the usual suspects loaded into the Brehm train. Headed on our usual route, I carted numero uno+friend off at their usual haunt. As I helped them out of the car, I sniffed the beginnings of a ripe smelling dipe. But what was I going to do? Open up the back hatch and take that diaper to task right then and there? No. Because the middlest had obligations, as well. So, off to the second stop with numero dos. Handed him off and the scent was wafting by this point. I could smell it in the front seat. And see the babe’s face from my mirror to his. Like a cat on a scratching post, the little munchkin squished his back all around. And was showing his dissatisfaction with the current arrangement as I headed to the gym. As soon as I lifted him out, it was as if I’d burped the top of a tupperware that had been forgotten in the back of the fridge for a good three weeks. Mother of pearl. Pun.gent. I stopped my nose from breathing in and I surveyed the damage.
His back was soaked. The car seat was obliterated. There would be no gyming. We were quite literally up shit creek. I grabbed a towel that had to have been placed in there by Jesus himself. Because it totally saved me. And back into the car seat went the babe. Now, I know what you’re wondering… why, in the samhill, would you put your feces festooned babe BACK into his car seat. Well, friends. It’s because I’m a third time mom. I’d like to say it’s because I’m cocky and I like any challenge to spin my mad MacGyver Mommy skillz. But really, it’s because I’m pretty much always flying by the seat of my pants these days. And am also, in general, ill-prepared for such happenings at the 15 month mark. I used to have all sorts of awesome crap from baby showers at the ready. Now I just carry one diaper on the seat of my car and cross my fingers. So do you think I had any extra clothes in my bag… ummmm no.
[And could I have perhaps stripped him down and left him in his diaper and shoes? Surely. But that seemed cold. And somehow cold seemed more cruel than the poop situation we’d already found ourselves in. Should I also have, perhaps, not put a towel down in between him and his carseat? Surely again. But seriously, people with your baby snuggly cozy carseat liners… it’s basically same/same. So judge not lest ye be judged or however it is that saying goes.]
So. Back home we went. And up the stairs to his quarters. I then, skillfully managed to smear poop all the way up to his hairline as I removed the onesie he was wearing. And so the boy was bath bound.
 |
| Har. So much pride for bagging a day bath. |
Fast forward to Wednesday.
All the usual suspects loaded into the Brehm train. And headed on our usual route. I dropped numero uno+friend off at their usual haunt. As I helped them out of the car, I sniffed the beginnings of a ripe smelling dipe. But what was I going to do? Open up the back hatch and take that diaper to task right then and there? No. Because the middlest had obligations, as well. So, off to the second stop with numero dos. Handed him off and the scent was wafting by this point. I could smell it in the front seat. And see the babe’s face from my mirror to his. Like a cat on a scratching post, the little munchkin squished his back all around. And was showing his dissatisfaction with the current arrangement as I headed to the gym Target.
No. I did not accidentally hit copy+paste up there. My life is fareaking Groundhog’s Day. I half expected to run into Ned Ryerson under the bullseye.
As soon as I lifted the littlest out of his seat, it was as if I’d burped the top of a tupperware that had been forgotten in the back of the fridge for a good three weeks. Mother of another pearl. Pun.gent. I stopped my nose from breathing in and I surveyed the damage. The shit had not hit the fan. But it HAD managed to land everywhere else. And I added BUY LOTTERY TICKET to my mental to-do list. With the luck we were having, surely, it was my time to shine.
The positive spin though, the saving grace, was that this time, I had backup. I took the littlest into the Target Family Bathroom ready to conquer that diaper like it was my job. Because, oh right… it IS. Again, feeling quite proud that I had a handle on the situation, I reached into my purse. AAAAAAAAAGH! I only had a onesie. I had not packed pants. H.E.DOUBLEHOCKEYSTICKS. So. I stripped the kid again. Gave him a wipe bath. Scrubbed him down with a little liquid bathroom soap {of note, I apparently forgot to lock the door as a Target dude walked in {sidenote: he was totally on his phone, walking into the family restroom. The Mister later assured me that the man had plans to drop a mean steamer on the company’s dime. Which my baby thwarted with his dominated drawers} as I was soaping my kid up in the sink. I’m fairly certain he had me monitored through the store}. Dried him off with a few paper towels. Threw on the backup onesie. Replaced his shoes and socks. Took the clothes and put them in a tied up Target sack {which I am also certain made the Target cameras that were already watching me think I was shoplifting}. And plopped him in the cart.
He was completely freaking ecstatic.
 |
| Har. Sans pants. Completely ecstatic. Poop clothes in bag next to him. He loved me more than anything in that moment. Which you can plainly see. |
We carted over to the kids section. I snagged some pants. Put them on him. And as I did, a grandma chatted with me about the fact that I’d forgotten to put pants on him. I smiled and nodded. So not my style but I wasn’t in the mood to make pleasantries re: poop city or explain the sink bath. So, pants acquired, we tended to my list of very important things including toothpaste and canned air.
———————————————–
“Um, yeah. We’re wearing your pants.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna need to scan the baby,” I told the checker. “I left the tag on. He’s wearing Target pants.”
“Marilyn! I get to scan the baby,” she told her sidekick. And they got a good chuckle.
I wondered when they might be presenting me with my mother of the year trophy. Because clearly, I’m nailing it, daily. In fact, as I stripped down his carseat post-first poopcident, my eyes focused in on the sticker on the bottom of his infant seat which read: DO NOT USE AFTER JULY 2014. See. Killing it. Every. stinking. day.
Don’t call the authorities. We updated his seat.
And as for the poopsplosions that H has been having, well, that’s just bum luck. And for him, a huge pain in the ass. This too shall pass. I’m just hoping it does so a little less.
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