Poop In My Lap

The day - 9 May, 2011. We are rolling merrily along on the return drive from our first road trip home to Tennessee. Seven days have gone fast, and the little one did amazingly well the entire week despite the constant shuttling between homes and being passed around the circle of oglers more than a football at the Super Bowl. Surely, something bad must happen. There must be punishment for my parental contentment and pride.

We knew the little one often used the bathroom mid stride in a diaper change. I understood the importance of the barrier between the child and the changing surface. In the past week, she must have outgrown such childish things. Really? Nope.

I decided, as my foot-long sub sat gleaming on the dash while I consoled a discontent newborn traveler in the backseat, that I could forego the barrier. Disaster. Punishment, indeed. No sooner was the poop soiled diaper removed from between my daughter and my lap that she unleashed a fecal fury that would make the most active monkey shriek with joy. My shorts were beyond the stage where wiping with a baby wipe works. Where is the suitcase? Lodged between the dog's kennel and the interior of the Jeep. No easy access from the inside to conceal my shame.

So, I tactically exited the vehicle, moving like a bank robber to his prize. The folks inside the bank where we were parked must have been alarmed. Who is this awkward person with what appears to be dijon mustard all over his lap and legs? I snagged a pair of pantaloons, changed in the backseat, and stuffed the  tainted garment beneath the seat. Out of sight, out of mind.

Lesson learned. Well, reinforced;  learned the lesson in week 1 and my conceit (and my daughter's poop) got the better of me.