A dinner story

There wasn't much I feared going into this fatherhood thing. One exception, though, was taking Case out to restaurants.

I envisioned horrifying scenes of screaming, crying and people staring at me for reasons other than the usual.

But a week into his existence, we went to lunch. Aside from getting out of the car and making it halfway to the front door before remembering there was a child in the back seat, the outing went fine. Perfect actually. And in the ensuing weeks, Case contiinued to sleep through public meals. Most of the time, it was like he wasn't there.

Until Friday.

Now there was no screaming, crying or questionable behavior (at least on Case's part), but there was an incident. And, surprisingly, I wasn't horrified at all. In fact, I enjoyed being the guy everyone was staring at (at least one person I'm sure did not share this bit of twisted pride).

Anyway, our meal at Carrabba's was going swimmingly. Good food, good conversation, TV was within sight. Case was sleeping late into the meal when he began to stir. I told Ashly and my mom I'd take Magoo for a stroll to try and calm him down and I'd meet them outside; it's the type of sacrifice a parent makes when someone else is paying the bill.

So Magoo and I are out cruising around the parking lot (on foot), and he's enjoying the new view -- wide-eyed and quiet. Then, the silence breaks. Aggressively. The boy's expression did not change, but it was the type of noise even the newest of the new parents recognizes. After a couple more minutes of walking and a couple more aggressive rumblings out of Case, I decided it was time to go back inside and see if the rest of the party was wrapping things up.

They were were still leisurely chatting away waiting for the check, so I mentioned to Ashly that Case needed to be changed. She wondered if the restaurant had a changing station, but I suggested it might be easier to change him in the back seat of the car (Calm down, we have a changing pad). She agreed. I then offered to do the changing (Really, I did), but Ashly said she would take care of it and I could wait for the bill with my mom (the least I could do since she was paying).

A few minutes later, I figured I'd be alll supportive and check on the fesitivities in the parking lot. Approaching the back of the car, I turned and the back seat was in clear view. The first thing I noticed was a puddle on the changing pad.

"Uh, what's that?"
"Oh my God, it was horrible!"
"What happened?"
"All over the back seat!"
(Grimace, slight smile)
"I figured it wasn't good when I noticed the puddle."
"When I took his diaper off, he started shitting again, and when he was done, he started peeing!"
(Smile no longer slight)
"Oh, no, I'm sorry, baby."
(Laughing, both of us)
"OK, let me get in there and clean that up while you put Magoo back in the car seat."

 I wiped the changing pad down, free of feces, and cleaned a moderate amount of pee off the back seat, still smiling. It could have been much worse. Thank God for changing pads. Of course, now we were standing in the Carrabba's parking lot with plenty of people staring us, and I was holding a diaper I swear weighed roughly the same as Case. It was 5 pounds if it was an ounce. I then made what turned out to be the type of suggestion that could only be made by a new parent lacking sleep.

"What are we going to do with this diaper?"
"Ooh, I don't know."
"How about I take it into the bathroom in the restaurant and throw it away; I'll hide it so no one sees."
"WHAT? YOU CAN'T TAKE A DIRTY DIAPER INTO A RESTAURANT!"
"Oh, yeah, good point."

 Ultimately, I got an extra to-go bag and stashed the evidence in the trunk. We then fled the scene of the crime and returned home, where dirty diapers are handled more efficiently, but rarely with as much entertaining drama.