So, I’m not really a “talk about my baby’s poop” kind of person. Before my parenting days I would roll my eyes at such stories or, if a good friend, cut the storyteller off to inform them that poop stories are not good material for a non-kid audience (Alexis – I’m looking at you). Even after becoming a parent I didn’t have much to say on the subject but was definitely more indulgent of other new moms than I had been before I had my own little poop machine. I even laughed genuinely when a dear friend had a second child who would go days without pooping and then, when she did explode, it was literally up the back of her onesie and would come out the arm and neck holes (hahaha – I’m looking at you Michelle). What I’ve now realized is that Lucy was a relatively uneventful pooper and the truth of the matter is, I just never had a good enough poop story to tell. But I do now so I dedicate this blog to all those friends on the receiving end of eye rolls and rude commentary. Poop stories are actually right up my humor alley and here is my current allstar…
Imagine the scene: it’s a hot day. We decide to go get some ice cream “real quick”. It’s about 4pm and a quick run for ice cream is the perfect start to the bed time coast. Now that we’ve moved to a residential neighborhood in my city, we can no longer walk to do this. So we hop in the car toward an urban center and head to where we know there will be a big parking lot. I didn’t even grab the diaper bag (ridiculous rookie mistake). As soon as we took off, I said out loud to my husband “LMJ is definitely going to poop. Hopefully it just won’t be an exploding one and, as bad parents, we can let her sit in it for just a bit.” I’m most certain that my little rascal took this as a cue of sorts.
We arrive at the parking lot. We try to pay the machine to give us a receipt to put in our car window. We are having trouble. We are not the only ones having trouble. The parking attendant arrives to try to help guide us through the process but it’s not us, it’s the machine. Despite the clarity of the situation to everyone except for the parking attendant, he continues to explain the process of sliding your card into the machine. My husband patiently explains that the problem is not us, and it’s not the woman who came before us, and it’s not the other woman having our same issue – it’s the machine – and we would not like to receive a ticket.
I stand by with two children, one in my arm and one impatient for ice cream. I smell it first – oh no. Then I feel the diaper fill up – OH NO! Then, I feel a warm loosely solid oozing substance on my hand. As LM would say, “Dee-scusting!” As I would say, “OH SHIT!” And the conversation proceeds:
Dad-E: Well, you can’t logically give me a ticket if the machine is broken.
Me: (from the background and not super loud) I have poop on my hand.
Attendant: All I’m saying is I could go off duty and someone else could give you a ticket. I can’t
control the next person on duty.
Me: (a touch louder) I have poop. On my hand.
D: That’s ridiculous, how can you possibly give us a ticket?
M: (holding up my hand as evidence, getting louder) Um. Poop. ON. MY. HAND.
A: This is a matter that is out of my hands…
M: (stepping between D and A) I HAVE POOP ON MY HAND. THIS TRUMPS OUR GET A TICKET OR NOT CONVERSATION. LET’S GO!
And so we do, go. Dad-E takes off to a nearby CVS for supplies. I sit on the ground outside the subway station with LMJ superbaby style over my arm, the one with the sullied hand, and wrangling my threenager with the other. As we wait LM curiously brings me cigarette butts, bricks that line the border of dirt laid for sidewalk trees, and other bits and pieces of garbage she finds. I am kind of frantic, kind of laughing, desperately hoping that no one I know walks by and willing Dad-E to move at lightning speed through the pharmacy which, honestly, he kind of did.
Wiped up and cleaned off we head to J.P. Licks for our “quick” ice cream before bedtime. That peanut butter oreo ice cream in a waffle cone was AMAZING.