Dedicated to the very nice lady with the mystery novel and the red bookmark.
When I started this blog I wanted to stay away from poop humour, because it’s gross but also because everyone already equates poops with babies. There’s nothing more to learn. Nothing, except the extent to which parents are acquainted with poop. No honest account of motherhood would be complete without a poop story.
Last weekend was Joanie’s first excursion into air travel and despite the stigma of terrible babies on planes, and aside from a few spats of tears, she was quiet and well behaved. The horror show was the lead up to the flight. On our last day in New York Joanie and I came down with a cold. I struggled through a fever, headache and runny nose to pack while she wailed. We had done some shopping and had acquired a whole new bag of stuff. We were also running late as people with young babies perpetually are, something my previously maniacally punctual self has recently come to terms with. Frantically, I packed, crawling on the floor to find socks (I celebrate the minor victory of all our socks returning in pairs), throwing all of Joanie’s accessories into whatever bag was closest.
We arrived at Laguardia airport with a large bag on wheels, a diaper bag, a computer bag, a canvas bag of souvenirs, our coats, Joanie and the car seat she refused to sit in. On top of all this I am a nervous traveler who insists on having my passport and boarding pass in my hand where I can see and feel them. Immediately after checking in Joanie started crying her long loud hunger cry. “Let’s just get through security and then I’ll feed her at the gate.” I figured that as long as we were there with our bags checked and our passports ready everything would be easy. We would have time to feed her and ourselves. We’d board early and comfortably. We would only have an hour flight and short cab ride. Then we’d be home. Boy was I mistaken. The great explosion of 2014 was awaiting me at Gate 15.
As soon as we got to the gate, Eric left to find us some tea and sandwiches while I settled in to feed Joanie. Just as she started to feed she looked up at me with wide eyes and then surprised herself with the thunderous noise that came from her little innocent looking bum. Everyone looked as I smiled and continued feeding her. I couldn’t take her to the bathroom until Eric got back to watch our bags. Anxiously I waited, until another thunderclap cracked. This time I felt wet seeping in my hand. Joanie, uncomfortable for obvious reasons, started crying. I sat her on my lap and streaks of greenish brown appeared on my jeans. I grew more and more impatient as the mess in her diaper became unbearable. “Oh hell,” I said loud enough for everyone to hear, unfolded a mat and started to undress my gross little daughter. Joanie, who loves having her diaper changed, smiled wide as I struggled to remove her shirt without smearing anything onto her face. She reached up to put her poop-covered fingers in her mouth and I fought to keep them down by her sides. A very kind woman in the seat next to me took notice of my catastrophe and offered to help. Embarrassed, I declined but she knew better and insisted, grabbing Joanie’s hands and entertaining her with silly faces. Together, in a frenzy of poop and limbs and diapers, we were able to wipe her down using the rest of the wipes I had and a few tissues I’d stuffed in my pocket. The woman, her heroism complete, left to wash her hands that were now covered in a stranger’s bodily fluids. Just as I was strapping Joanie into her diaper and singing her changing time song, Outkast’s So Fresh and So Clean, Joanie let out her third and final thunderclap. Without any more wipes I used the diaper to clean her up and dressed in her last diaper, the others I had brought were stupidly stored in our checked luggage.
Eric came around the corner to find me holding his naked smiling daughter with my elbows, my fingers spread wide and away from her. He put down the two camomile teas and two sandwiches he had brought for us and took over while I left to scrub my hands and clothes. When I returned Joanie was shaking her stuffed Elmo and babbling away as if nothing had happened. Eric borrowed a spare diaper from a family nearby and we ate our sandwiches.
In the end it was just another day.
That’s my poop story.