With just over a month before we welcome a new baby, I’ve been having the expected #momguilt for knowing that my time with Augs alone is coming to a close. He skips along happily, demanding this or that, and I capitulate in a hurried sense to ensure that I’ve built up enough mom bucks in advance to survive the pending blow.
So when I came home from work on Thursday and he exclaimed, “pool!” … “swim!”… “Hammy!” … we went.
I crammed my 5 lbs of sausage into a 3 lb bag by way of a triangle top bikini. Things were coming up, down, and out of the sides, but I have a rule that so long as the circumference line around my mammaries isn’t showing, it’s a classy day. I threw on a tarp of a white swim cover up, put “Hammy’s” butt in a washable swim diaper and trunks, and off we trotted merrily to the apartment pool.
When there, I whipped out a box of family-style Cheez-its and a Costco-sized bag of Craisins I’ve been working my way through since last October. I shed my tarp, and tried to pretend that everything was normal. I have bruises all over my lily white belly from blood thinner shots for this pregnancy, with attempted cover-ups via multiple band-aids, and leg/misc. hair growth all over. I have adopted a policy of if I can’t see it, you can’t see it, which seems fair enough to me.
Augs was having the time of his life. Popping a Cheez-it, signaling for more, counting “eight, nine, ten!” and jumping into my awaiting arms at the pool. Dinner and a swim.
When Augs requested to get out of the pool for another jump, I resumed my catcher position. But instead his eyes skirted side to side before he took off running like he was representing Jamaica in the 100 meter olympic race. He ran behind the patio chairs, peeking out at me for only a moment before resuming his road runner role. Other parents and residents were eyeing me, judging me to stop my kid from running.
What they didn’t know is that he is a poo-runner. Against all natural instincts one would think to have about hunkering down when it is time to do one’s business, he takes to the trails to literally run the bleep out of himself. He only stops running once the act is complete, and I was in no way about to intervene with nature.
When he finally returned, he yelled the greeting of “Poopybutt” in my direction. As I hoisted myself out to manhandle the situation- which was an act of God in and of itself- I realized we had an ‘issue.’
The child, who has to ingest miralax on a daily basis just to pull out the stops for one poo-run, appears to have outdone himself. I see poo on his feet. I trace it up to his calves, his knees, and then I smell the cows from a thousand barnyards.
I don’t know the code to get inside to the restroom. Neither do the two mothers I bother to ask casually and politely…”excuse me, do you know how to get into the restroom?” You know, the way you say something when you are completely panicked, but are pretending you are being filmed as a proper English character responding to such a situation.
So behind a bush we go. I only had one swim diaper, which unfortunately isn’t like a real diaper with tabs, where you can really get a handle on things while they stay put. This bad boy had to be peeled off, bringing with it completely estranged fecal matter. When I grabbed for the wipes, I discovered I had one wipe. ONE WIPE PEOPLE. This was borderline an 8 wipe job, if you counted a pre-powerwash with Amazon’s top-rated spray nozzle. I was at a loss. I randomly decided to use the one wipe for 1/2 of a cheek. I put a dry diaper over the entire mess, leaving poo all over his legs and feet. I took his trunks, diaper, and wipe case and wrapped them up in our towel. I put him on my hip and grabbed our gear. When others stared at us after all the commotion, I simply exclaimed, “we are outta here!”
The three minute walk back to our apartment was a long journey, filled with the soiling of my white tarp, the dripping of chlorinated feces down my leg, and a patient addition of 34 lbs in my belly + 30 lbs of impatience on my hip. When we got up the stairs and inside, I felt like a marathoner crossing the finish line, ready to throw up. In my dilapidated state of mind, I emptied the contents of the world’s worst swim diaper into the kitchen sink. THE KITCHEN SINK. There is no logic for this decision, but I can assure you that using the disposal in that way should warrant a fine upon my departure of this fine establishment.
Hammy’s clothes went straight into the laundry. Hammy went straight into the shower, where I had to wash him down, still fearful of his smoking gun.
So today when he asked me to go to the pool, I had to explain to him that we’ve soiled our reputation with our current neighbors, and we will be visiting another pool. He seemed to nod in agreement. “Pool, poopybutt, shorts, mama.”
Yes, Hammy, that pretty much sums it up.