The scene is the
children's museum.
The toddler is happily
playing in the water room. It’s
loud. There’s a cacophony of splashes as
simple machines and delighted children pour and squirt what I’m sure is the
purest mountain drinking water.
You have seven minutes
left on your parking.
The baby, snug in the
ergo, is looking around the room quizzically, his mouth slightly agape, drowsy
from a nap upon your bosoms.
A grandmother remarks
how funny your toddler looks with a coffee cup drawn on her face and you
explain that, at the face painting station, she did not want to be a “cat nose”
as per usual, but insisted on a cup.
Then you feel it.
The reverberations.
From within the
baby.
And you remember that
his last poop was last night. The ergo rumbles with yet another tiny but productive
fart.
You try to encourage
your toddler to leave the room. You bribe her with stamps. You implore her that
her brother needs a diaper. She does not want to leave. Why would she? What’s in it for ME, she seems to ask as she
ignores you and moves onto a station that seems to be for racing rubber
ducks.
Finally, with a
combination of bribery and flattery, you coax her out of the room, make her
stand under the dryer for a minute, and then lead her, still mostly wet, to the
stamp station, side stepping a toddler having a tantrum face down on the ground. You smile at the frazzled mother and tell
her, “Everyone lies on the floor at the children’s museum at some point.” But really, you’re just hoping your toddler
doesn’t choose this moment to join him.
You make it to the stamp
station. Methodically she tattoos her
arm with the fairy stamp and then, miraculously, allows you to take her hand
and exit the museum.
She, for the first
time ever, crosses the parking lot while holding your hand and without
complaint, and lets you buckle her into the car seat, all while the baby begins
to feel the effects of his rumblings. The
sun blinds him and he begins to thrash in the ergo as you hand the toddler a
book and get the spare clothes from your backpack.
You have two minutes
left on your parking.
And anyway, it is far
too late. By the time you strip away the sweaty ergo you see the telltale
orange stain. It has gone through the diaper, through the baby pants, through
your sweatshirt, through your undershirt, and onto your skin.
The baby howls as you
peel off his soaked pants and wriggle him out of his onesie. Wipe at the ready, you remove the tape of the
diaper.
It is epic. It is front to back. It is in every tiny baby
fold. It completely coats his baby boy genitalia.
Your “one and done”
wipe is not enough. Wipe after wipe you
remove the watery milk poop from every nook and cranny.
“He’s crying.” The toddler remarks.
“YEAH!” You yell over
the yowl.
“He not in his car seat.” Bossy toddler remarks.
“I know. I’m changing his diaper.”
“I’m in MY car seat!” Just the facts.
“You’re being very
patient, thank you.”
“I spilled water on my
bagina.”
“Ok…You can have clean
clothes at home.”
Finally, the baby is
clean enough. He begins to wiggle
happily, letting the cool autumn air dry his nether regions. You fear for the fire hose and quickly diaper
him and put on the fresh onesie.
Baby goes into the car
seat.
“He has a DUCK on his
shirt.” She exclaims.
“Yeah he got a new
shirt.”
“Fun at museum!”
“I’m glad.”
