I am an idiot. I wrote that post two weeks ago about my diaper bag and all the great, useful stuff that is in it. Then later that week, I got a little cocky, as I’m sure happens to all of us now and then, and I left my house without the diaper bag. Now with my tail between my legs, I present to you the story of what happened next.
The weekend after I wrote the diaper bag post, I realized that we were almost out of diapers, so I informed my husband that we would be doing a Target run. His best friend, who was visiting us from Florida, slept until 12:30 (his wife just left him so I can’t be mad at him for anything, but REALLY??), then baby girl had to nap, then baby girl had to eat, and finally we were ready to go. Thinking it was going to be a pretty quick trip, I grabbed my Coach purse, threw in a baggie with diapers and wipes, and we were out the door.
In case you didn’t catch the foreshadowing: COACH PURSE, DIAPERS AND WIPES ONLY.
After braving 95 traffic to Stamford, we finally made it there. As we were parking the car, I noticed that distinct poo smell. “Whoops, guess we’re heading to the bathroom when we get inside!” I said, clueless. As I lifted her out of her car seat, I realized that my hand was touching something warm and squishy. That’s right, my chronically constipated daughter, who hasn’t had a public blowout since The Great Honda Dealership Incident of January 2014, decided that this was the perfect time to let it flow.
“So of course you got back in the car and went home, right?” you ask? No no, we slaves to 95 traffic forged ahead into the store. I headed to the bathroom and sent the boys up to the baby department for a new outfit. I got the baby on the changing table, and as I peeled off her outfit and diaper, I realized that this was much worse than I thought. My daughter had taken probably the biggest dump of her life. It was on the inside and outside of her diaper, the inside and outside of her outfit, on both our hands, my dress, and somehow on the diapers/wipes baggie. I was now baggie-less. I then realized that I was also low on wipes.
Meanwhile, people were flooding into the bathroom like it was halftime at the freakin’ Super Bowl or something. Baby girl spontaneously decided that flushing toilets are the most terrifying sound ever, and she began to scream like I had never heard her scream before. It was like she was getting a shot, being held by one of her uncles, and separated from her blankie all at the same time. And since the entire population of Stamford was in the bathroom just at that moment, the Toilets. Just. Kept. Flushing. A little girl approached me to ask what was wrong with the baby, and I can’t remember what I said – I just hope my head didn’t spin around or anything. I used my last wipe and finished up the job as well as I could with toilet paper (to whoever had to clean the bathroom that evening: I AM SO SORRY). Baby continued to scream. A lady came over to us and offered, “I think it’s the sound of the toilets that’s upsetting her.” Smoke poured out of my ears.
Holding a poo-filled outfit and with my naked-to-the-diaper kid on my hip, I stomped out of the bathroom to find that my husband was at checkout with his outfit of choice: a red striped t-shirt (THANK YOU for yet another piece of laundry that will inevitably turn everything pink) and grey fuzzy sweat pants.
“What is this?” I hissed.
“For winter,” my husband explained.
“Told you she’d think it was a boy’s outfit,” said my husband’s friend. Totally besides the point.
Refusing to return to that bathroom, we headed over to the in-store Starbucks and wrangled baby girl into the outfit. It was about the most ridiculous thing he could have chosen, but it did the trick. I grabbed a plastic Target bag and stuffed the poopy outfit into my purse. Yes, human waste in my Coach purse. I deserved it. Miraculously, we trudged on, completing our shopping trip, replenishing our diaper supply, and returning home with baby in weather-inappropriate clothes that will surely be too small by winter. I learned some important lessons that day:
Never get cocky.
Never let Dad pick out clothes.
And most importantly, in parenthood, always be prepared for the worst.