About three years ago, I wrote a post entitled Poop and Run. Here's a snippet:
"So, one of my most embarrassing mom moments happened on our trip. The condo we stayed in had a nice, big pool and Cale loved splashing around in it. They also had a zero entry baby pool with fountains that was Cale's favorite because he was able to run free without the constraints of "mom and dad" holding him back. On about day three, we took Cale to the pool once again.
He wasn't really acting like himself. He wasn't "swimming" in the baby pool or getting under the fountains, he was just kinda standing there. This should have been our clue. I thought he was just tired with naptime being pushed back and his sleeping all out of whack. Then, suddenly I saw it. It was orangish brown and floating in the pool. It took me about three seconds to realize that it was coming from our son.
He'd pooped in his little swimmers and into the pool. And don't even get me started on swim diapers. Seriously, does anybody really think those things actually keep much of anything in? Not to get too graphic, but it wasn't exactly the kind you can just scoop out. Okay, I'll just say it. It was diarrhea. Horrified, I very nonchalantly,<b> pointed out the mess to my husband, and I think we were out of that pool and back to our car in less than a minute.
That was so wrong--fleeing the scene of the "accident", but I panicked. I wasn't thinking clearly.
Diarrhea had clouded my thoughts--and the pool.
Needless to say, we didn't make any more trips back to swimming pool. Partly for fear of a repeat offense, but even more for fear of someone recognizing us as the "poopetrators" from the other day."
Well, that was then. But plenty of embarrassing bathroom moments have happened since. Too many, really. In fact, something may be wrong with our children. We should probably get that checked out.
About a month ago in Lowe's, we had another one of those endearing child moments. As we were walking the aisles picking out items for the house we just built, we noticed our youngest son Keaton. He was doing "the walk".
You know what I'm talking about, right? Legs spread so far apart he can barely walk at all. And it's more of a waddle than a walk.
And it can only mean one thing: I've got something really big in here.
Knowing that he had a giant surprise for us in his drawers--I started towards him. Right before I picked him up, it fell out.
On the floor.
In Lowes.
It had made it's way out of his pull-up, smeared down his leg, and landed with a plop (I'm sure there had to have been a plop) on the concrete floor of Lowes.
Frantically I began looking for the kinds of things that good mothers have readily available at all times.
Like tissues. Or wipes. Or napkins. Or a small baggie.
I didn't have any of those things.
Luckily my mom was with us and she scrounged up a tissue from her purse. And without a second to waste, she scooped that thing up and headed to the bathroom.
Fearful of a second round, we scooped our son up, and practically ran out of that place--probably leaving a smelly fog behind us.
I've thought about it a few times since. Mainly my mom's part in the whole incident. That thing was pretty big.
And that tissue was pretty small. And thin.
It must have been a really uncomfortable walk to the bathroom, carrying it in her hand.
Thanks mom. And I promise we didn't laugh about it at all.
Okay, maybe I can't promise that.
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