This weekend and other disasters
Saturday was a family day for us. We were on the way to the mall to see Santa when Mazzy had a stinky poopie. We combined the diaper change with an errand, resulting in the worst parenting moment I have had in public in a while.
Mazzy is a big girl. She just is. My ten month old daughter is wearing twenty-four months clothes. Sure, there is some room to spare, but not much. She is long and she is all chubby and sweet and I love her.
Except….
Except when I am trying to change my child in the front seat of my Cavalier and she is flipping around screaming, pulling on handles, kicking me, clawing at my face, sacrificing animals… you get the idea. Well, at some point during this disaster that my husband insists on calling funny, Mazzy managed to get poop on me. More specifically there was poop on my cream colored shirt. Poop, you might know, isn’t cream-colored. It is distinctly brown and you can SEE it rather well on a cream shirt.
Our next stop in our day was the bank. I needed to deposit my Coffee Mines money so that we could eat. It is funny how that works out, right? At any rate, I have discovered that I have poop on my arm and I start crying. There is no shame in crying when your husband is trying to convince you that it is okay to go inside the bank with poop on your cream-colored shirt.
The crying worked and I was able to wheedle Adam’s shirt off his back so that I could deposit my check. And I am glad that I did because the bitchy teller that can’t stop talking about how she likes her drink was there and I DID NOT want to be poop-i-fied in front of that lady.
A quick stop back at the house for fresh clothes only threw our schedule off a bit, but isn’t everyone better off because I changed out of my poop-shirt? That’s what I thought.
Poor timing on our part had us at the mall during Santa’s lunch break, but that did give us the opportunity to do some shopping for Mazzy.
While standing in line for an hour to see Santa we discovered that I need to pack better for these long trips. We were all under-fed and cranky. Mazzy was the only one who had snacks. I had remembered to bring her snack food. See, I do pay attention.
The whole standing in line to see Santa thing made me strangely happy. I mean, yes, there were all kinds of bratty kids and Santa looked like he was on pills, but it was great. I got to watch people and Adam and I caught up on gossip and work bitching. I liked the fact that Santa rolled his eyes when he spotted my giant baby. I loved that the kid behind us couldn’t keep his excitement to himself and he kept talking to me and Adam. I adored all of the cute kids in holiday outfits eagerly waiting their turn to sit with the fat man. I think it is hysterical that Mazzy’s first holiday photo is of her crying, struggling to get away from a mythical creature/legend/giant elf/whatever.
Oh, and Santa’s beard was totally real. Awesome.
Mazzy is a big girl. She just is. My ten month old daughter is wearing twenty-four months clothes. Sure, there is some room to spare, but not much. She is long and she is all chubby and sweet and I love her.
Except….
Except when I am trying to change my child in the front seat of my Cavalier and she is flipping around screaming, pulling on handles, kicking me, clawing at my face, sacrificing animals… you get the idea. Well, at some point during this disaster that my husband insists on calling funny, Mazzy managed to get poop on me. More specifically there was poop on my cream colored shirt. Poop, you might know, isn’t cream-colored. It is distinctly brown and you can SEE it rather well on a cream shirt.
Our next stop in our day was the bank. I needed to deposit my Coffee Mines money so that we could eat. It is funny how that works out, right? At any rate, I have discovered that I have poop on my arm and I start crying. There is no shame in crying when your husband is trying to convince you that it is okay to go inside the bank with poop on your cream-colored shirt.
The crying worked and I was able to wheedle Adam’s shirt off his back so that I could deposit my check. And I am glad that I did because the bitchy teller that can’t stop talking about how she likes her drink was there and I DID NOT want to be poop-i-fied in front of that lady.
A quick stop back at the house for fresh clothes only threw our schedule off a bit, but isn’t everyone better off because I changed out of my poop-shirt? That’s what I thought.
Poor timing on our part had us at the mall during Santa’s lunch break, but that did give us the opportunity to do some shopping for Mazzy.
While standing in line for an hour to see Santa we discovered that I need to pack better for these long trips. We were all under-fed and cranky. Mazzy was the only one who had snacks. I had remembered to bring her snack food. See, I do pay attention.
The whole standing in line to see Santa thing made me strangely happy. I mean, yes, there were all kinds of bratty kids and Santa looked like he was on pills, but it was great. I got to watch people and Adam and I caught up on gossip and work bitching. I liked the fact that Santa rolled his eyes when he spotted my giant baby. I loved that the kid behind us couldn’t keep his excitement to himself and he kept talking to me and Adam. I adored all of the cute kids in holiday outfits eagerly waiting their turn to sit with the fat man. I think it is hysterical that Mazzy’s first holiday photo is of her crying, struggling to get away from a mythical creature/legend/giant elf/whatever.
Oh, and Santa’s beard was totally real. Awesome.
Comments
These babies!