Christmas gift cards burning a hole in his pocket, Mr. Chicken lobbied hard this weekend for a trip to the groovy mall over the state line. With all of Sunday (and Sunday dinner) in our dirty house stretched out before me, a trip to Indy sounded like heaven.
Around 10 a.m. we headed for the car, and in an unusual display of competence, I grabbed two diapers and a pack of wipes for my bag.
Our apprehension about The Poo’s behavior quickly evaporated once we arrived at the mall. The change of scenery seemed to soothe her: “The city, mommy! It’s A CITY! I LOVE this mall!”
Even when she begged to get out of her stroller and walk, she did so holding my hand and obeying my every caution. Her brightly colored dress and neon green Crocs attracted flattery from one and all, and our day trip seemed to be a success.
Unfortunately, we can never go back there again.
I was debating the wisdom of blowing $22 on a T-shirt at Crewcuts when I happened to glance at The Poo. It was one of those moments when your eyes see what’s happening, but your brain rejects the notion altogether.
There was poop on the floor next to and behind her.
There was poop on her legs. In her shoe. Did I mention it was on the floor? On the floor in J. Crew?
Before I had a chance to think, I grabbed her in a football hold and ran for the nearest restroom. I left behind my bag, holding the pack of wipes and my cell phone.
Do you notice anything missing from that inventory of my bag?
Yup. No diapers. The Poo is embracing potty training somewhat more enthusiastically then I am. When she pees, she freaks out and demands a diaper change immediately. We pulled over on the way to Indy and changed her, and put on the second – and last – fresh diaper after lunch.
So I’m running through the mall, The Poo slung over my shoulder and my fingers slipping in shit. Frantically, I charge into a nearby department store and stop at the jewelry counter, where a small Russian woman with hair pulled back so tight I can see the veins in her head ignores me.
After asking for the bathroom three times, I finally snapped.
“LADY! I’VE GOT A KID COVERED IN POOP! WHERE IS THE BATHROOM!”
Safe inside the restroom, I deposited the weeping Poo in the handicapped stall and commanded her to stay put. Sympathetic women standing at the sink pulled paper towels and handed them to me as I buzzed in and out of the stall.
The poor kid. There was shit everywhere. Runny and stinky. She gagged as I pulled her dress from her body and gingerly removed her feces-filled shoes.
Naked and shivering, rubbed down with cold, wet paper towels, she never looked smaller than she did at that moment, perched precariously on a huge toilet. With each flush from the neighboring stalls, she jumped.
But that brave girl, she stayed still while I cleaned up.
Once she was clean, I was confronted with the fact that we were diaperless. A woman with a small girl offered me a Tide pen as I washed out the stinky dress.
“Do you have a diaper?” I replied, my voice loud with panic.
She did not.
Back in he stall, I closed and locked the door. I stripped off my own capris and pulled my underpants down.
“OK, Poo. You’re gonna wear mommy’s big-girl underpants, OK?”
I slipped them on her and knotted the sides for a tight fit. I got dressed and pulled her wet frock back over her head. Admonishing her to tell me right away if she pooped, we went back into the mall to find Mr. Chicken.
He was wandering around in front of the department store.
Holding a J. Crew bag.
He paid for the items we’d picked out. After he wiped all the poop off the floor.
Reunited, we set up camp at a nearby seating area. I undressed the child again, and pulled out a skirt and T-shirt we bought at BabyGap.
The well-groomed man seated across from us caught sight of a two-year-old clad in nude, Victoria’s Secret low-rise cotton bikinis, and beat a quick getaway.
I can’t say I blame him.
We picked up the car at the valet and asked for directions to the nearest drugstore. “Is she OK?” the valet asked, gesturing to the baby.
“Let’s just say she’s going commando,” I said.
On the way home, The Poo was dry and diapered, and I was riding bareback.
I knew I would make sacrifices when I became a mother. I just never thought those sacrifices would include my panties.
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
I have a feeling, as we (meaning, really, the Little Imp) are perched precariously on the edge of potty training (please Lord, I want to believe we really are), that we have a few of these moments ahead of us. Hopefully I’ll be able to handle it with as much grace and aplomb as you did.
Oh man – you and HBM need to get together today!
OH my goodness! What a story! I bow down to your sacrifice!
Holy Cow! It hasn’t got that bad for me yet. Probably will someday though.