My sister (Kristy) says that my life sounds like something you’d see on reality TV and sometimes I have to agree with her. Sitting in Friday School at church with Camille I noticed this huge rat’s nest in her hair. I’m obviously a boy mom (and have been enjoying the low maintenance life of a mom with a bald baby) since it never occurred to me that I needed to brush her hair before we headed out. I guess it’s finally getting long enough to need some work.
Isn’t that awful? And this is after I subtly tried to claw through it with my fingers to flatten it.
It didn’t work.
As we were sitting in class (and I was contemplating my horrible hairstyling skills), I was really proud of the way Camille was coming out of her shell, playing with the toys without clinging to my leg, and seeming to enjoy herself. I was starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel — the day I would finally be able to enjoy singing and hearing a sermon with the other adults, when she suddenly started to act shy. She stopped playing and hid behind me. I thought it was because I was talking about her to the other mom there and she was self-conscious. I tried to encourage her to go back with the other girls, but she didn’t want any part of it. I looked around at the other kids her age and honestly wondered what was wrong with mine. They were playing and chatting while my freaky child was burying her face in my back.
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| Look at this little girl with the perfectly combed hair and barrettes. Her mom obviously knows what she’s doing. |
Then as suddenly as it began, she crawled out from behind me and started smiling and chatting. What the heck? So now my baby has a split personality? As she cruised past, I caught a whiff of funk and it all became clear: my baby wanted to poop in peace.
Relieved that my child wasn’t emotionally stunted, I excused us to go to the bathroom, thankful that I brought my purse for a change (I usually only carry a wallet and keys). In the bathroom I dug around in my huge bag for the diaper I knew was there — except it wasn’t. Oh, good grief. I have to walk all the way to the car to get a diaper? I was pretty sure there was one there — if not, I was going to be in big trouble because her mess was already starting to leak out the sides onto her shorts and, oh great! Onto my shirt. Yuck!
Since time was of the essence, I carried her, hammock style, by her shoulders and feet all the way out and down the street to the car, getting progressively stickier with each step (we may be in the same region, but it is MUCH MORE HUMID here than Oman). When we finally made it to the car I dug around in all my usual emergency diaper hiding spots . . . nothing. But by now the diaper contents was out of control so I cleaned her up the best I could, scrubbed poop out of the car upholstery (it went up her back, people!), off of the tailgate of the car, off of my wallet that she rolled on when I let go of her for a fraction of a second to grab another wipe, off of her clothes, and off of my shirt.
Now I was left with a “clean” baby, but no diaper. Providentially, there is a British grocery store located across the street from church so I headed over to buy some overpriced “nappies.” But first I had to trudge another half a block with grubby baby on my hip and the disgusting 2 pound diaper in my hand to the dumpster to offload the toxic waste, collecting a million more beads of sweat along the way.
Diapers purchased, we headed back to the car to finish the changing process so we could get back to church. But now my clicker wasn’t working. I stood there pushing the unlock button over and over and thought, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” And then I noticed the tribal bumper sticker and realized that I was trying to get into the wrong car. Oops.
Back at my own car, the clicker worked, I used a million more wipes to get all the fuzz, sand and grit off of her diaper area (from lying in the back of the car during the previous change), and then we went back to church. I wasn’t feeling particularly spiritual or clean at the moment, but at least there was air conditioning.
I would like to say that the rest of the morning was uneventful, but right as services were ending she went again — Mohammed’s Revenge, perhaps? On the bright side I had 27 more diapers in the back of the car, but her shorts were beyond salvaging with baby wipes and required buying a new pair of pants. Though I think she’d call her new pair of pink jeggings a “win.”