Because Poop Happens

You know, I joke about how it's hard to get out of the house with two kids.

How, by the time I get home from work, or from traveling - the thought of having to lug my two kids around with a diaper bag that never seems to have what I need in it, exactly when I need it, makes me want to stay close to home.

But some of you have said - "It's important to get out there! So you don't lose your sanity!"

Which has me scratching my head because when did you ever hear me say I had any to begin with?

So last weekend, I decided that it was time to venture out. It was a good a time as any. My husband was yelling at the TV, constructively providing feedback cursing and yelling like an effing lunatic during the broadcast of the England vs. USA game for the World Cup. Frankly, he was scaring the crap out of me, I thought he could use some "alone" time.


I decided to pack up the kids and took off to go shopping. Our Au Pair, Fe, also wanted to come with me because all of John's yelling was giving her a serious headache she wanted some new clothes.


So we go to a clothes store with Shaila and Nico in tow. They are both still in diapers. (Yes, Shaila is almost three and still in diapers. Adventures in Potty Training is another post. Please don't judge. Ok, go ahead - I suck).

We walk into the store and I feel like a drug addict who just stumbled upon a "buy one joint, get this line of coke 1/2 off!" sale. The sheer smell of clothes that I really have no business of wearing unless I planned on going clubbing in Jersey with my body from like, ten years ago, intoxicated me.


I recognized that I was in trouble.


So I start piling clothes onto Nico's stroller. John would not mind this little shopping expedition, I told myself. This was confirmed when he called to tell me that the US had tied England 1-1, and his relief gave me clear license to run up some damage on our credit cards.

NOTE: Had England won, I would have hastily left the store to provide support and love for my husband.

(Snort).

About ten minutes in, I catch a whiff of something.

"Mommy! Mommy!! I pooped! It's a big one, Mommy!" screamed Shaila, in order to ensure that everyone in the store was aware of her special gifts.

I wrinkled my nose and bent down to check out the evidence and sure enough, she was right.

(Now, I know half of you may find it strange that after becoming a mother I find it wholly appropriate to bend down and take a whiff of my child's hiny. The other half of you are nodding your head in complete understanding and totally ready (HOLLA!) to start a support group for what we have become).

I looked over at Fe. "We have to go soon," I advised as I did a mental inventory of the financial damage of our purchases.

Suddenly, the shrillness of my daughter's already shrill whine reached a new pitch, yet unheard by me.

Shaila: "MOMMY!!!! I POOPED!!!!"
Me: "Yes - Honey. I know! We are leaving."
Shaila: "MOMMY!!! BUT LOOK!!! HERE IS MY POOP!!!"

And there it was.

ALL OVER HER FREAKING HANDS.

LIKE, ALL OVER.

Now, this was not the kind of store that had nice, cush bathrooms for its clients. Nor did it have changing tables to clean my children up. The clothing racks also were not spread far apart, far, far away from the reaching poopy hands of my child.

Oh, crap.

I looked at Fe helplessly as we tried to rally the poops, oops, I mean, TROOPS, and get things under control. Fe rushed out of the store with Shaila to change her diaper in our car while I held down the fort with Nico, who was doing backflips in his stroller trying to keep up with all the action.

This was POOP-tastic.
A real, jolly freaking poop-isode.
Simply Poop-endous.

Life may hand you lemons. If it does? I advise that you make some lemonade.

On the other hand? Life may also hand you poop. In which case, I say, change the diaper and keep on shopping.

I am ever grateful that Fe was with me that day to help me out. As it is, the scars are healing slowly, but had I been alone on that expedition, you can guarantee I would not be leaving my house voluntarily till the kids were like, in freaking middle school.


XOXO,
Kiran