Those of you who are making the
poor choice of reading on, I apologize in advance for this crappy manifesto. It's a real load of shit, straight up. Really, I'm sooooo sorry. I've been absent for 10 days & THIS is the ish I come up with?! Damn.
OK, so yesterday was going to be a fun, family day. We were headed over to celebrate my niece's 10th birthday, stopped to pick up a veggie tray at the local Dillon's store, and I sent Scott in to grab it while I stayed in the car with Cal & the girlies. Easy peasy. He'd be in & out and we'd be off to the party on time, for once!!! SHOCKING, I know, but I was feelin' good about it.
Cal & I are chatting away while we wait for Scott to come out with the goods when I spot him exit the premises, heading our way. Instantly I smell poop. Maybe one of the dwarves is "prairie doggin' it." No wait... it's not that hint-of-a-turd, fart-like aroma which dissipates rapidly. It's that full-on, disgusting, rank, hideous feces stench that hits you like a ton of bricks THAT EXACT MOMENT, you feel nauseous, and you vomit a little in your mouth. And seriously, we have a PARTY to get to! We don't have time for someone to grow a tail, for the love of God!!!!!!
I scream, "I SMELL SHIT! Someone shit on the coats (for you Dane Cook fans!)!!!! Seriously, Scott, CHECK MIMI. I think she shit like 3 seconds ago."
Scott says, "Gwen, she's clean."
I question, "Cal, did you fart? And do you have MAJOR intestinal distress if you did?!?!"
Cal retorts, "NO! IT WASN'T MEEEEE!!!!"
I panic. I know that it can only be one person then. And that one person is sitting directly ON MY LAP. And she didn't strain. AND she looks guilty. And it smells like straight cha-cha. I lift her up rapidly & take a whiff, and folks, it was THE WORST, most FOUL-SMELLING Dump of the Century.
As soon as I realize the culprit, I swiftly set her back down on my lap, muttered the F word, got in a huff about being on time & not having time for Pocket to "drop the kids off at the pool" as we've got a party to get to, and as I let go of her, I realize that my hand is.... ummmm... WET. And brown. More vomit in mouth. OMFG. We've got B.M., folks. &*#$!!!!!
I turn Lola's ass around to get a better look -- and yes, all of this IS still occurring in the back seat of our truck (which is just one year old & seriously Scott's pride & joy STILL...) -- NOT GOOD. REALLY not good. Let's just say this wasn't exactly a minor dingleberry to blame, a simple shitkabob, a run-of-the-mill dookie. This was a liquid shitstorm of epic proportions... Mississippi Mud at it's finest... the work of a massive dose of Super Colon Blow.... Queen of the Sharts. BRUTAL, yo.
What ensued after this moment is but a blur to me now... a frightening blur. I'll do my best to recount, with more apologies, of course.
OK, so somehow, Polly Ann Pocket, all 9-10 whopping pounds of her, managed to defecate in her diaper in such a way that it not only filled the diaper itself & perhaps slightly escaped one or maybe even both leg holes... but instead she magically channeled this effortless, non-straining poo out a SINGLE leg-hole with such velocity and force that it actually was bubbling out through her darling, boutique sweater pants onto my hand and jeans and a burp rag in the general vicinity of this caca. It was one of those deuces where you almost don't even know where to start... how to proceed to rectum-fy... oops!!!... I mean RECTIFY the situation.
Scott tried to play it off on me, saying, "Since I'm The Shit Whisperer and all, I end up changing WAYYYYY more shitty diapers than you, so I'm just gonna let you handle this one."
I freak out, yelling, "Ummm, heeeeeeeeeeeeell no, get your ass over here & help me! This is wayyyyy more than a one-person job. I need you -- right f'ing NOW!!!!!"
He hems & haws, then finally saunters over, sees the wreckage, and I think, fearing for his truck, decides he might want to help me after all. We both aren't sure where to start, Polly Ann is looking innocent as ever, and we're both in a full lather trying to get her disrobed while also maintaining the safety of the truck, its surroundings, my clothes, the seat, the door, the door jam, the floor, and our dung-covered daughter.
My mind is racing... what did she eat different than normal? OK, that would be NOTHING. Is she sick? Ummm, NO. Has she been really fussy? Not a bit. Did she sleep well last night? Ironically, she HAD. Anything different going on whatsoever? ZILCH. What the F is going on then?!??!? FULL MOON!??!?! F'in A.
I barely know where to touch, what to try to remove, it's all a clusterf***. Scott dives into the skids, carefully pulls the pants down to expose Mrs. Poopypants' blow-out, which by this time has smeared down to her SOCK on that one leg. We act fast, remove the socks, curse some more, make note of Polly Ann's amused look on her face, proceed with pant-removal only to realize it's wayyyyy worse than we thought. FUDGE EVERYWHERE. Smell intensifying. Nausea in waves. I'm in Turd Town, and Lola's the Mayor.
OK, pants off, socks off, leg COVERED in doodoo, we send Cal into the store to grab a few plastic grocery bags for the fall-out. One for baby wipes/diaper/trash/possible vomit, and one for the clothes. Half-way through the clean-up, we realize that's not enough. We send him back in for more bags. We need to divide the clothing into TWO bags. One that is only partially soiled, and one that is completely drenched in warm trots. Cal remained at our sides, opening the bags & providing commentary as needed. Good times.
As soon as the clothing was completely removed, I tackled my jeans/lap skids with a baby wipe, only to smear it in further, I'm sure, but at least most of the stain was "gone." It would have to do, as I didn't have back-up jeans on hand, dammit. After I scrubbed my jeans for like 3 straight minutes until the baby wipe wore completely through, we cleaned up Mrs. Pocket's cling-ons. 27 baby wipes later, swabbing from mid-back to ankles, we had 'er whooped. (as well as ourselves, but that's a whole 'nother story...)
Our daughter is now nekked, in a new, fresh, clean diaper, and ready to take on the world after her run-in with Mr. Hankey, who clearly reigned victorious. I dig to the bottom of the diaper bag, which I admit, I've not cleaned out or "updated" in quite some time. I seem to just toss a few new diapers/burp rags on top & NEVER check to see if I've got back-up outfits on board. Until today...
It seemed a fitting "punishment" for Polly Pocket to have to wear a hospital, baby bag, newborn-sized, one-piece number (which fit her PERFECTLY, ironically... *sigh*) to the party instead of her cute, festive Halloween get-up. Karma, babyyyy. She seemed smug after taking me to Browntown. Maybe even happier in this outfit than her previous adorable one. Brat! HA! (kidding... sort of!)
iPhone snapshots from the car (excuse the blurs -- Scott was driving like a bat out of Hades to get us to the party on time. I'm happy to report that we made it with 1 minute to spare! YESSSSS!)...
|Notice the witchy barrette... it perfectly completed her Halloween garb till she ruined it allllllllll!!!! HA!|
|What did I doooooo????|
|Notice the plethora of burp rags under her volatile booty?! Ummm, yeah. Necessary for this Mama's peace of mind!!!|
I present you with the evidence... you are damn lucky I didn't take pics with my iPhone "at the scene." You're welcome.
|I will luckily only bless you with the view from the outside... observe shit stains/fecal matter from hell smeared all over the inside of the bag... ewwww.|
Later that evening, Lola tried to charm me at the birthday party by looking SUPER cute in my niece's new American Girl doll's glasses. Cal NEVER thought they'd fit her, but they were PERFECT. I'm gonna have to bookmark the American Girl website now for Mrs. Pocket. Greeeeeeat.
I SO love this #2 girl o' mine. :)
And again, I am so sorry for the graphic images, 39+ crap references, and for detailing out our daughter's shart attack. My apologies!!!
"When you're up to your nose in shit, keep your mouth shut." ~Jack Beauregard