Case,
To the dismay and horror of your mother, the following story is true. There is no need to embellish.
Circumstances dictated that you tag along on a business meeting this morning. The initial stated plan was to introduce myself to a magazine editor and pick up some back issues for a writing assignment I had been given.
I didn't think your presence would be a problem. And, to your credit, it wasn't. For the most part. Once the phone in the conference room was unplugged and it was clear that your general silence could be bought by judiciously doling out crackers (you ate an entire sleeve), the meeting went along smoothly. A productive conversation took place for about an hour while you ate crackers, played with a train and occasionally crawled up on the table to remind us you were there. (Right now, your mom is thinking, "Oh, Jesus." Or possibly, "Good God.")
But that's not the story. Here's where it gets interesting. About an hour in, I realized I needed to bring the meeting to a close. I could sense it. Rather, I could smell it. In such a situation, a parent "nose" it's time to go.
So I politely explained that I needed to get you home, picked you and Peter Sam up and waited nervously with you in the lobby as the editor searched for some more back issues I had asked for.
And then I did what any good parent would do. I proceeded to spend another 10 minutes chatting and telling stories while holding you and hoping that the numerous people gathered in the vicinity (there were donuts in the break room a few feet away) either had colds or small children of their own. On a related note, this is the point at which you know you've become too comfortable as a parent -- when you willingly carry on a conversation (professional, no less) while holding a child who has shit his pants.
In hindsight, the extra time not addressing the issue at hand was a mistake. Just how big of a mistake I would soon find out.
A couple of minutes later we were back at the car. I put you in your car seat and figured I would just drive you back home and deal with the mess there. But the smell seemed to be clinging to me. I wanted to do something about it right then. I did. I shouldn't have.
I looked around for wipes and couldn't find any. That should have tipped me off that the new plan was doomed. But determination is often the mother of stupidity. At least in my case.
So I cleared off the front seat (by throwing everything onto the floor), grabbed you and two clean diapers, placed you on the front seat (you don't fit anymore), removed your diaper amid your squirming and my swearing and immediately knew I had made a HUGE mistake. A diaper is not a suitable cleaning product, especially when you're faced with the Chernobyl of bowel movements. I did what I could, but I felt like one of those people who try to clean ocean birds after an oil spill. There was only so much I could do.
I managed to clean you up enough (or so I thought) to put a new diaper on you. I didn't even bother putting your clothes back on. I just put you back in the car seat and paused for a moment while I reflected on what I had done. I also took the time to wipe off the car seat with a bank envelope and search my hands for signs of struggle. Unfortunately I found some. More unfortunately, I had run out of inappropriate items with which to clean up. I may have spit on my hand as a stopgap solution.
OK, now the story REALLY gets interesting. Once we left the parking garage, I drove to the closest place I could find with a bathroom. I walked into the 7-11 and was greeted by this sign on a door next to the counter: "No public restrooms. Sorry for the inconvenience." My first and only thought was, "You have no fu**ing idea, 7-11. You have no fu**ing idea."
I left, resigned to the previous 10 minutes of futility and looking forward to getting back home. Trying to brighten the mood after what went down on Level 2 of the Book Bindery, I turned around at a stoplight and said to you, "Hey, buddy, doin' OK?" You smiled. I smiled too, momentarily feeling good again, and then I saw them: streaks of brown all over the backs of your legs. You kept on smiling. I did not.
We drove a few more blocks and I spotted a gas station. I pulled in and there was only one parking spot, a handicapped spot. People who park in handicapped spots without themselves being disabled are the worst people in the world. That is why we sat in that parking lot -- both of us shit-stained -- and waited until another spot came open.
After a couple of minutes, we parked and I took you inside. You still weren't fully clothed, but I did put a shirt on you. We walked toward the back and a woman, seemingly knowing that a befuddled-looking man with a baby missing its pants could use some help, said, " The bathroom is over here."
The bathroom was locked. Of course it was. At that point, my determination kicked in. I was going to get us clean, one way or another. I looked around for a wife. They didn't sell them. They did, however, sell paper towels. And soap. And bottled water.
Still holding you (thank you for being so calm during this whole mess), I grabbed those items off the shelves, unashamedly paid for them and returned to the car (the bathroom was still locked, and I wasn't going to subject us to any time in there anyway after someone had been in there doing bathroom things for who knows how long).
At the car, I put you back in your seat, opened all the items, strategically placed each of them within reaching distance and went to work: 1. Grab a handful of paper towels. 2. Pour water on them. 3. Rub them on the soap. 4. Vigorously scrub body parts. 5. Smile knowing that all this nonsense will make a GREAT story. 6. Repeat as needed.
A few minutes later, we were all set to go. I gave you a high-five, put the cap back on the water bottle, placed it, the remaining paper towels and a bar of soap I should probably throw out when I'm finished here in the only container I could find -- a souvenir White Sox batting helmet that, fittingly, originally held a taco salad.
Our ordeal over, we hopped on the interstate and headed west. I'd be lying if I said the whole adventure didn't make my day.
Love,
Dad
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