Tuesday, February 15, 2011

The Walmart Affair

Friends, I contend that you have not fully experienced motherhood with a baby until you've wrestled through a diaper explosion in a public place. When you have poop smeared all over you and people are watching, you have officially arrived. Have you ever checked out www.peopleofwalmart.com? It's possible, I do believe, that friends could find my face on there now, if only someone was in the Neighborhood Market of Moore, Oklahoma yesterday and captured an image of Silas and me at our, er, not-so-best. Yesterday's experience may come to be affectionately known as "The Walmart Affair" in my memory.

The quick run-down: Silas and I were dashing into Walmart for two loaves of French bread for a get-together that we were on our way to. Quick dash-in = no diaper bag, because, hey, what could go wrong in three minutes? Famous last thoughts as the explosion occurs as Silas is on my left hip, rendering poopy all over both of us immediately. Sigh of patience as I realize I am screwed, and begin the walk back out to my car for the diaper bag, realizing with every squishy step that the diaper is leaking more onto me. Make it back to the family restroom, get Silas stripped down, clean everything as much as possible. Go to get new outfit for Silas and realize that both clean outfits I have for him are somehow soaked in spilled sippy cup water. Oops. Guess my baby is going to wear a diaper only in Walmart now. On to me, with feces smeared across my shirt. Smart me used to carry an extra shirt in the diaper bag just for such occasions, but compromised for space only about a month ago, leaving me no extra shirt. So, wriggling baby and all, I throw him onto my right hip with my weak right arm (remember, the left arm is always the one that holds the baby), so that I know I'll be seriously cramping in two minutes, but what is my choice? He can't rub against the poop. As we are leaving the restroom, I see a special "French bread" section at the front of the store and a line of only one person at the register. The hell if I'm coming back later! So my naked son clings to me in line (it's the winter, but thank God it was 65 degrees out) as the stench rises from my brown shirt. French bread purchased! Our next stop was back home before heading onto the dinner party, needless to say. A story for the ages....

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