Drama Mama

The scattered thoughts of a new mom.

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Shits and Giggles

Sat, Apr 24 2010 (03:25 PM)

I’ve never really understood this phrase until now. Shitting and giggling only go together when you’re a baby. This morning, I had Layla sitting in her tub on the floor of the bathroom while I put on makeup and brushed my hair. She was so happy and pleasant. She even laughed for me quite a bit. I kept asking her what was so funny. I finished my routine, picked her up, and found out exactly what was so funny. Lovely baby poop was slowly creeping up her back.

I really don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I don’t remember my brothers blowing out their diapers like she does. The worst was a few weeks ago when we were out getting John’s car washed. About a mile away from Green Lantern, we heard the gurgling sound of juicy excrement filling our daughter’s diaper. We laughed and casually commented on how “fun” that would be change once we’d finished the car wash. If only we knew…

About thirty seconds later, Layla began to cry quite inconsolably. Unfortunately, there’s little you can do you for a wailing infant while driving. As usual, we told her how much we adore her, promised her that we were, in fact, in the vehicle with her, and insisted that at our next stop, McDonald’s, we would change her dirty diaper. With much protest, she endured the car wash, and we moved on quickly to the restaurant, located at the same intersection. John parked the car, got out, and opened the backdoor to rescue our little girl. I was hopping out with the diaper bag when I heard, “Oh my God, baby girl! What did you do?”

Luckily, she had kicked off her pretty blanket before pooping because she had crap all over herself and the carseat. So, I told John what I wanted to eat and made a beeline for the restroom, taking Layla and her diaper bag with me. Keep in mind, this is a McDonald’s, Kid-Central, Land of the Happy Meal. You expected most of your patrons to have children of varying ages. Your customers have a high probability of bringing an un-potty-trained child along. The women’s room, however, has no changing table. I guess they’re trying to update and yuppify their image. After all, this is one of those new models with the stylish dark wood and stainless steel and even a few dark modern couches with a coffee table, as though McDonald’s was morphing into Starbucks or something.

I suppose the changing table would have ruined the image. Fortunately, there was small amount of counter space around the sink. So, I laid out her changing pad and began my challenge. I needed to get all the poop off of her and hopefully the carseat, as well. She was still screaming bloody murder, alarming the elderly woman who had entered the bathroom earlier than we. There were no paper towels, only hand dryers. And the sink was automatic, which meant that Layla soaked herself when she squirmed around and thrust her head underneath the faucet. Eventually, I removed the soiled diaper and garment and changed her into the last outfit left in the bag. I delivered her to Daddy and returned to the restroom to attack the carseat with wet napkins (no paper towels, remember?) They were absolutely ineffective. So, I vowed to throw every washable part of it into the washer when we got home and walked back into the restaurant to eat my cold food.

I’m sure it could have been much worse, but I really don’t want imagine it. I’d like to say that we’ll get you back for this when you’re starting high school. Your Daddy and I can come up with plenty of ways to embarrass you. But, I’m guessing this is karma for some major crap I pulled on my parents. I’m sure I deserved it.

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