After a day like yesterday, I often find myself wondering who I pissed off in a past life to experience the disasters that I do. I love my son more than anything in the world -- he is my angel -- but what comes out of that child's butt is more akin to ancient black magic than anything angelic and holy.
It's Murphy's Law of Parenthood: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong when you're least prepared. We went grocery shopping last night after dinner. It's always fun to take Danny along shopping as he loves to grab whatever is within his reach and throw it in the cart, on the floor or even in someone else's cart. He thinks he's helping mommy. I was two aisles away from the baby aisle when I first smelled disaster: It was a fresh, familiar odor that I've tackled single-handedly many times over. And of course, we have a poomergency and the diaper bag is a quarter mile away in the backseat of a parked car (thank you Murphy's Law!). Ok, no big deal. It's just a shitty diaper, right? I figured I'd just finish up in the spaghetti isle, stroll over to the baby section, and snag a bag of diapers and wipes off the shelf. Easy fix.
Within those two or three minutes, the smell magnified. The aisle that was just jammed with shopping carts was now completely vacant. Danny didn't seem to notice; he was harmonizing a Danny original that echoed throughout the store, while bouncing up and down to the beat of his tune. Bouncy bounce. Bouncy bounce.
I picked him up out of the shopping cart once we wheeled our way to the restrooms. I felt the slickness on my arm and I knew -- shit just got real. With a diaper in my mouth and a package of wipes under my chin, I carried him through the restroom door by his armpits. There was poop EVERYWHERE. This wasn't an adorable widdle baby shart. This was a stage five massive volcanic butt eruption, with brown lava spewing out the back of his diaper and up the back of his shirt, nearly reaching the back of his neck. As most experienced parents know, this kind of poop is infectious, so by this point my hands, arms and jacket were also covered in toddler butt lava.
Being the awesome mom that I am, I was completely unprepared, so after cleaning him up, I just dressed him in his winter coat and jeans and quarantined his soiled shirt and my poo-smeared jacket in a plastic shopping bag. I paid for our groceries (the poor cashier couldn't check her smelly customers out quick enough) and strapped a very happy, albeit shirtless Danny, in his car seat and brought my angelic toddler volcano home.
I offer a heartfelt thank you to the onlookers in the bathroom who offered moral support when it was needed most. It was encouraging to hear that toddlers eventually grow into independent adults and that Danny will be able to wipe his own ass one day. One day. Unfortunately, that day was not yesterday.
P.S. Rot in hell, Murphy's Law.
Crying baby in supermarket photo via Shutterstock.
More from parenting