I knew my world would revolve around my kids. I didn't realize everything that would come with that - namely, poop. #MomLife is grosstastic. Gross and Fantastic and Fantastically Gross.
We went grocery shopping this week - like we do every week. Things were going smoothly. Littlest was taking turns smiling, cooing, and dozing off in her car seat which was positioned strategically to block this sign:
While this poop story is entertaining, the REAL poop story occurred at a Chinese buffet during a recent trip to visit Grandpa.
The first thing you should know is that Our Brown-eyed Girl only poops about once every week. Or two. The doctors say this is within the realm of normal for a breastfed baby - although they also said that about Our First who pooped three times a day...so...?
On the day of the incident, it had been about a week since the last poop. Littlest was making more grunting noises and concentrated faces than is normal. I put one and one together and realized we would probably have a #2 today.
There we are at the end of the day, enjoying the Chinese food I'd been craving for almost a year, when I noticed Littlest making an all-too familiar face. Soon followed the all-too familiar sound and a flicker of satisfaction and relief on that tiny face. "I can take her," Husband offered. But I, fearing the Men's room wouldn't have a changing table and he'd change her on the sink counter (or worse: the floor), insisted on doing it myself. #alwaysamartyr
Feeling confident, I marched to the restrooms carrying the Precious Cargo ever so gingerly so as not to squeeze out anything extra. It was already leaking through her pant leg, but I simply smiled to myself thinking of the extra extra things I had packed. What a Pro Mom.
Once in the bathroom, I realize I don't have any kind of pad to put between her and the grossness that is the Koala Changing Station. No problem. I grab some paper towels and make a makeshift liner. I then lay out my tools like a surgeon before surgery. Next time I will pack scissors so I can cut the clothes off like a surgeon too, because as I pulled those frilly, WHITE pants off, I also pulled a coating of natural peanut butter, thick and sticky, gloop poop over her leg.
She picked that moment to discover that her little hands can reach places other than her face - thus getting the gloop poop on her hands and spreading it all over her shirt, face, and the already gross Koala Changing Station with a makeshift liner that wasn't working at all.
I hadn't even opened the diaper yet and I was already through 2 of the 3 wipes left in the pitiful travel wipe container. What about the whole pack of extra wipes? I'm glad you asked. I left them out in the van, of course. Pride comes before a fall - or in my case, a hand covered in gloop poop. You see, I am a Half-of-a-Wipe Wonder. 2 wipes is my all-time high. So I packed the extra wipes, but didn't plan on actually using them. And now my hands were in no condition to be extricating my cell phone out of my tiny, girl-jeans pocket to call Husband for help. I was on my own.
We've only been in the bathroom for 15 seconds at this point, but it was 14 seconds too long for Littlest. It was cold. The fold-down changing table folded down too far so that my gloopy, poop hands were all that kept her from sliding onto the floor. I don't know what you do when you feel cold and insecure, but my girl screams.
I stood there for a moment taking in the scene. I knew it was comical, but the screaming baby and not knowing how I was going to get out of the situation kept me from laughing.
Then this thought came to me: The sink. I can wash the baby in the sink. Not the most sanitary for the restaurant nor the baby, but what else could I do?!
I waited until I thought the bathroom was empty and then made my move. It turns out, the bathroom wasn't empty. A waitress who was still drying her hands looked at me with some terror in her eyes but insisted (in her broken English) that she help. She started wetting paper towels and dabbing at the baby. I don't know where they got these paper towels, but I'm guessing they bought the cheapest one-ply paper they could find and then somehow managed to slice it in half so that it was now just half-ply because disintegrated immediately. The water was cold. The baby was colder. I wished the waitress would just leave so that I could plop the baby in the sink. I was about to retreat back into the stall, when I realized something!
My hand was rinsed and I could reach my phone! Phone a friend!
Husband handed the wipes through the door, Hallelujah. Back in the poop-covered stall, I went to town. A pack of wipes later, and I had everything wiped down - including my sweaty pits that had gone through the day's deodorant in the first 10 seconds. Baby was no longer breathing - just doing the silent scream. I was still unsure that I really had wiped everything clean, but I just wanted to hold my poor, freezing, traumatized baby - who would now probably wait a month before she dared to poop again - so I scooped her up naked and trudged back to our seat to dress her.
It felt like we had been in that cold, dark bathroom for an hour, but Husband said it was only about 20 minutes. Still way too long. And for some reason, my appetite for the Chinese food I had been craving for so long was absolutely gone - which worked out since everyone else had finished eating anyways.
The weird thing is that Our Blue-eyed Girl had a similar, but not quite so traumatic, poop-splosion in the same restaurant when she was about the same age. Weird.
We went grocery shopping this week - like we do every week. Things were going smoothly. Littlest was taking turns smiling, cooing, and dozing off in her car seat which was positioned strategically to block this sign:
Little was "driving" in the car part of the cart - except for when she took breaks to lean out the window and drag her fingers along the floor - and would probably have done a better job of steering than I was doing.
We had gotten everything on our list, plus a donut as a reward for a successful trip. For Mommy. As we came upon the shortest check-out line, I reached for my wallet and remembered that I'd left it in the diaper bag. In the car. I asked permission to abandon the cart momentarily while I retrieve it. The kind but snarky customer service man agreed, but on the condition that I not also abandon my children. How did he know I was trying to decide whether they'd sit still and go unnoticed for the 37 seconds it would take me to run solo?
We made it out to the van and back in again (but not in 37 seconds), through the check out, and back out the van. My arms and back were aching and the kiddos were whining, but we made it. We were all loaded up and buckled in and that donut was within my grasp.
"POOOOOOP!!!" I heard from the back seat. My heart sank.
"Can you wait until we get home?"
"NO!! POOOOP!!!" she repeated, pointing at the store.
So back in we all went. And back out. And re-buckled.
"MORE POOP!!"
"No. You can wait until we get home."
*cries*
"Have a donut."
The first thing you should know is that Our Brown-eyed Girl only poops about once every week. Or two. The doctors say this is within the realm of normal for a breastfed baby - although they also said that about Our First who pooped three times a day...so...?
On the day of the incident, it had been about a week since the last poop. Littlest was making more grunting noises and concentrated faces than is normal. I put one and one together and realized we would probably have a #2 today.
+an extra, extra outfit
+an extra whole pack of wipes
=prepared
There we are at the end of the day, enjoying the Chinese food I'd been craving for almost a year, when I noticed Littlest making an all-too familiar face. Soon followed the all-too familiar sound and a flicker of satisfaction and relief on that tiny face. "I can take her," Husband offered. But I, fearing the Men's room wouldn't have a changing table and he'd change her on the sink counter (or worse: the floor), insisted on doing it myself. #alwaysamartyr
Feeling confident, I marched to the restrooms carrying the Precious Cargo ever so gingerly so as not to squeeze out anything extra. It was already leaking through her pant leg, but I simply smiled to myself thinking of the extra extra things I had packed. What a Pro Mom.
Once in the bathroom, I realize I don't have any kind of pad to put between her and the grossness that is the Koala Changing Station. No problem. I grab some paper towels and make a makeshift liner. I then lay out my tools like a surgeon before surgery. Next time I will pack scissors so I can cut the clothes off like a surgeon too, because as I pulled those frilly, WHITE pants off, I also pulled a coating of natural peanut butter, thick and sticky, gloop poop over her leg.
She picked that moment to discover that her little hands can reach places other than her face - thus getting the gloop poop on her hands and spreading it all over her shirt, face, and the already gross Koala Changing Station with a makeshift liner that wasn't working at all.
I hadn't even opened the diaper yet and I was already through 2 of the 3 wipes left in the pitiful travel wipe container. What about the whole pack of extra wipes? I'm glad you asked. I left them out in the van, of course. Pride comes before a fall - or in my case, a hand covered in gloop poop. You see, I am a Half-of-a-Wipe Wonder. 2 wipes is my all-time high. So I packed the extra wipes, but didn't plan on actually using them. And now my hands were in no condition to be extricating my cell phone out of my tiny, girl-jeans pocket to call Husband for help. I was on my own.
We've only been in the bathroom for 15 seconds at this point, but it was 14 seconds too long for Littlest. It was cold. The fold-down changing table folded down too far so that my gloopy, poop hands were all that kept her from sliding onto the floor. I don't know what you do when you feel cold and insecure, but my girl screams.
I stood there for a moment taking in the scene. I knew it was comical, but the screaming baby and not knowing how I was going to get out of the situation kept me from laughing.
Then this thought came to me: The sink. I can wash the baby in the sink. Not the most sanitary for the restaurant nor the baby, but what else could I do?!
I waited until I thought the bathroom was empty and then made my move. It turns out, the bathroom wasn't empty. A waitress who was still drying her hands looked at me with some terror in her eyes but insisted (in her broken English) that she help. She started wetting paper towels and dabbing at the baby. I don't know where they got these paper towels, but I'm guessing they bought the cheapest one-ply paper they could find and then somehow managed to slice it in half so that it was now just half-ply because disintegrated immediately. The water was cold. The baby was colder. I wished the waitress would just leave so that I could plop the baby in the sink. I was about to retreat back into the stall, when I realized something!
My hand was rinsed and I could reach my phone! Phone a friend!
Husband handed the wipes through the door, Hallelujah. Back in the poop-covered stall, I went to town. A pack of wipes later, and I had everything wiped down - including my sweaty pits that had gone through the day's deodorant in the first 10 seconds. Baby was no longer breathing - just doing the silent scream. I was still unsure that I really had wiped everything clean, but I just wanted to hold my poor, freezing, traumatized baby - who would now probably wait a month before she dared to poop again - so I scooped her up naked and trudged back to our seat to dress her.
It felt like we had been in that cold, dark bathroom for an hour, but Husband said it was only about 20 minutes. Still way too long. And for some reason, my appetite for the Chinese food I had been craving for so long was absolutely gone - which worked out since everyone else had finished eating anyways.
The weird thing is that Our Blue-eyed Girl had a similar, but not quite so traumatic, poop-splosion in the same restaurant when she was about the same age. Weird.
Interesting (but probably not helpful) piece of trivia: my blue-eyed babies have pooped much more frequently than my brown-eyed one, whose record poop interval (if I recall correctly) was somewhere in the vicinity of 15 days.
ReplyDeleteI suspect that the restaurant employees might lock the door the next time they see you coming. :) Nah. Your littles are too cute to lock out.
ReplyDelete