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The morning started out much the same as any in the life of a Mom with 5 precious humans to get ready and out the door for school. It was smooth, lacking tears, screams or general angst. All backpacks we're packed. All shoes found and tied upon the correct foot. We were on time leaving the house. We were smiling and laughing. We were winning.
The first indication that something was amiss was an odor emitting from just behind my seat as we pulled into the school parking lot. "That's pretty foul." I thought as I found a place to park to walk the 4 older girls to their classes before heading to work with my youngest. I confirmed through the sniff test, performed by a voluntold older sibling, this was a big one. The eagle had landed.
As I grabbed the diaper bag to begin my task, I was struck by the sudden horror of a wipe package with two lonely wipes at the bottom. This was the beginning of the horror that would take the next thirty minutes of my life and three fourths of my soul. The car seat, the clothes, the child; all covered in a thick layer of peanut butter-consistency poo.
It was at that moment that my hero arrived. A woman who I from this day on will aspire to be like in both organization and mom life living, Hero Mom pulled into the parking lot and kindly gifted me with a full package of wipes.
Equipped with my newfound strength and wiping abilities, I attacked.
Stripping pants and onesie from the wriggling, slick, one year old on my leather car seat, I wiped, I scooped, I swiped with all my strength and agility. Sadly, I was not quick enough and a poo-covered foot struck me in the chest, leaving behind the perfect imprint, heel to toe in the center of my shirt, foul and perfect, a mark I will not soon forget. "Are you serious?" I asked her as I grabbed the foot and cleaned between toes.
Once the bottom half was mostly clear, I moved up, recalling the fact that this was three days worth of poop and cursing myself for ever feeding her bananas. I sat her to happily play with the steering wheel as I wiped her neck and hair. She giggled and I cooed at her, feeling the twinge in my heart and remembering why I love this Motherhood gig. That's when I noticed, she wasn't giggling out of adoration for her poo-covered Mama but out of maniacal cruelty. She peed. She peed in the poo. The poo on my seat. She made pee soup.
This is when I lost my mind. I began laughing. I laughed hysterically with poop on my chest and tears in my eyes. Naked baby in the pee soup on my leather seat clapping her hands in joy. We laughed together and I wiped some more. I soaked up the pee with the souled onesie and tossed the outfit into the trash with the wipes and useless diaper and moved on.
Half a container of wipes and one full Mommy mind later, she was "clean enough" to drive home and promptly fell into a content snooze in her still damp seat. And here I sit in my car, stinking strongly and laughing still. Poop on my chest and love inside. Wondering if PPTSD (Poo Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is actually a thing and looking forward to when she wakes up and we can do it all over again.
I sure do love this stinking life.
