It Happens. (Day #18)

I am a mommy.  This is my blog.  But ETD isn’t supposed to be a mommy blog.  It’s supposed to be a daily record of a 12 week challenge.  An honest account of my attempt to be wildly creative and impressively productive during my life’s latest detour.

Inevitably, though, my posts are baby-laden.  My detour, after all, is motherhood, and my constant companion is a twenty-six-day-old infant.

Usually, though, I am able to mitigate the mommyness, because usually, what I’m trying to say isn’t really about motherhood at all.  Motherhood is just the context for my commentary.

Today is different.

Today started with a mad scramble to finish what was supposed to be yesterday’s post.  A post in which I praised Lil Mil for being an excellent travel companion.

You can imagine where this is going.

I finished my post and Lil Mil and I set off for our daily outing.  The plan today was to start at Starbucks, have lunch at a nearby cafe, then spend a couple hours at Borders.

To my delight, Starbucks was nearly empty when we arrived, which meant we had our pick of the five leather chairs in the back corner.  I maneuvered the stroller through the maze of tables and wooden chairs, into the enclave of leather, cognizant of the fact that if it ever did get crowded, it would be somewhat tricky to get it back out.

We set up shop.  Laptop in my lap, latte on the table, stroller parked to the right of my chair.  We were ready to work.

Or, at least, I was ready to work.  Lil Mil was ready to cry.

I considered my options.  We could leave, but that would mean that all the effort we’d put in to getting there would be wasted.  I could ignore her (it was pretty loud in there after all), but knowing my daughter, that would only intensify her resolve.  So I decided to pick her up.  Only briefly.  Only until she settled back down.

So I did, and she instantly calmed down.  So far so good.

And then they started.  The loud, unmistakable grunts that precede a diaper blowout.  Followed by the loud, unmistakable sounds that accompany a diaper blowout.

I looked around to see if anyone was in earshot.  The place had filled up a bit, but no one was within a ten foot radius.  Lil Mil continued her grunting, her face beet red from her efforts.  I tried to act nonchalant.

I scanned the room for the bathroom, but didn’t see one.  So I would have to leave to change her.  I wondered how long I could let her sit in a dirty diaper without feeling like a bad mom.  I wondered if wondering this made me a bad mom.

And then I felt it.  Something warm on my stomach.  Slowly, carefully, I lifted Lil Mil away from my body.

She had pooped all over me.

I’m not making this up.  Or exaggerating.  We were wedged in a corner at a bathroom-less Starbucks, and I was now covered in bright yellow baby poop.

I could tell you how I handled it, how I stealthily changed her in the bassinet of her stroller, how I oh-so-casually wheeled us out of there, hiding the massive poop stain behind the handlebar of the stroller, how I refused to give up the dream of a day at Starbucks and thus took my poop stained self to the adjacent Nordstrom Rack and bought a new T-shirt so that we wouldn’t have to go home.  I could make this post about something else.  Poop as a metaphor for life’s challenges.


I’ll just leave you with the image of me, sitting in the back corner of Starbucks, holding my daughter, both of us covered in poop.


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