When we’re in town, Saturday’s in the Bostick household are Gymboree days. For my non-mommies, Gymboree is a class-styled program for babies 3 months and older that teaches socialization, introduces music and memorization and encourages growth by mimicking others. Parents (mainly moms, but I have a lot of dads at my location) bring their children and attend
class with them for roughly 50 minutes, singing songs and interacting in Gymboree’s indoor playground set up. Yep, that’s right, its basically a monthly social network for adults to meet up and talk about their kids while measuring their children’s progress against others, all while masquerading as a learning experience. But since I’m one of the brainwashed ones, I continue to tout its great educational value (smiles)
After Saturday’s Gymboree class, Roman had a playdate with our neighbor Camila and her daughter Sofia, who is one week younger than Roman. We went to lunch and Roman had cheerios for the first time with Sofia. A few Cheerios and a bottle of milk later, it was time for Roman’s afternoon stinky. If you will recall, I mentioned earlier in my blogging that Roman is a fairly noisy baby when it comes to going number 2. His grunts are unmistakable and Maurice and I often have to try to talk over his noises when we’re out in public and he’s doing his thing.This day, Roman was his usual “outspoken” self, but for longer than usual. I attributed that to the Cheerios and the fact that he had an audience. But when he finally stopped and I picked him up to go change him, his warm booty and serene grin should have been my warning. Instead, I traipsed to the bathroom as if it was just another routine changing…when it was anything but. (no pun intended)
The changing room at the restaurant was in one of the only two stalls. I took Roman in and laid him down. This was my first problem. You see, Roman has recently learned how to sit up from a laying down position and now that’s ALL he wants to do. So when you lay him down to change him, it’s like a dance. Up and down up and down. This time when I laid him down, though, I stripped off his bottoms and felt an ooze of stinky coat the back of his legs. All I could think is “this is not good”. But before I could fully even comprehend that comment, Roman had sat up on the table, hands at his sides…and resting comfortably in the stinky from his jeans. Now I’ve got stinky on his legs AND hands. Holding his arms out in front of him, I break open the wipes and remember immediately why only mothers should be allowed to pack for babies. Because when dad packs, he is only worried about what he’s SEEN happen, not what COULD happen. So when my husband left only 8 wipes in the travel pack, its bc that amount is sufficient on most days. This, however, is not most days.
I take two wipes and clear his hands while simultaneously dragging him away from the remaining stinky. But now he’s crying and I’m down two wipes and his legs are dragging stinky all over the changing pad and table. The clothes are a loss, so I toss them in the trashcan along with the diaper and 2 wipes. Now I have a naked baby on a changing pad with stinky along the pad and table plus hands that are not totally clean…who wants me to hold him! He won’t stop crying and by now I’m sure I have an audience, so I strip off MY sweater so he won’t get that mess on me, use two more wipes to ensure we’re good, and pick him up…holding him out in front of me like a specimen. 2 more wipes to get the stinky off his legs and I’m thinking we might be okay. Until Roman wiggles out of my hands and steps back on the table right into more stinky. Now we’re clean from head to ankles, but our feet are a problem. With only 2 wipes left, I can clean my son’s feet or the changing table. Every self respecting mother knows what I did - I opted for the feet.
Searching his changing bag for the water I carry for his bottles, I take a clean shirt, soak it with water and wipe him all over, just to be sure. The shirt is immediately also a loss and thus tossed, I get him dressed in a pair of pajamas I have in the bag (again, a daddy thing) and I have a clean baby….and a filthy changing table. I’m out of wipes, clothes to discard and options. With a pair of feet anxiously waiting outside the bathroom door for access to the stall, I use two diapers to wipe what I could from the table, trashed the changing pad and closed up the table. Its not as I found it, but unless the person behind me is a mother waiting to change her own child, its safe for at least as long as it would take me to tip off a cleaning person to the issue (anonymously from my cellphone, of course)
The changing room at the restaurant was in one of the only two stalls. I took Roman in and laid him down. This was my first problem. You see, Roman has recently learned how to sit up from a laying down position and now that’s ALL he wants to do. So when you lay him down to change him, it’s like a dance. Up and down up and down. This time when I laid him down, though, I stripped off his bottoms and felt an ooze of stinky coat the back of his legs. All I could think is “this is not good”. But before I could fully even comprehend that comment, Roman had sat up on the table, hands at his sides…and resting comfortably in the stinky from his jeans. Now I’ve got stinky on his legs AND hands. Holding his arms out in front of him, I break open the wipes and remember immediately why only mothers should be allowed to pack for babies. Because when dad packs, he is only worried about what he’s SEEN happen, not what COULD happen. So when my husband left only 8 wipes in the travel pack, its bc that amount is sufficient on most days. This, however, is not most days.
I take two wipes and clear his hands while simultaneously dragging him away from the remaining stinky. But now he’s crying and I’m down two wipes and his legs are dragging stinky all over the changing pad and table. The clothes are a loss, so I toss them in the trashcan along with the diaper and 2 wipes. Now I have a naked baby on a changing pad with stinky along the pad and table plus hands that are not totally clean…who wants me to hold him! He won’t stop crying and by now I’m sure I have an audience, so I strip off MY sweater so he won’t get that mess on me, use two more wipes to ensure we’re good, and pick him up…holding him out in front of me like a specimen. 2 more wipes to get the stinky off his legs and I’m thinking we might be okay. Until Roman wiggles out of my hands and steps back on the table right into more stinky. Now we’re clean from head to ankles, but our feet are a problem. With only 2 wipes left, I can clean my son’s feet or the changing table. Every self respecting mother knows what I did - I opted for the feet.
Searching his changing bag for the water I carry for his bottles, I take a clean shirt, soak it with water and wipe him all over, just to be sure. The shirt is immediately also a loss and thus tossed, I get him dressed in a pair of pajamas I have in the bag (again, a daddy thing) and I have a clean baby….and a filthy changing table. I’m out of wipes, clothes to discard and options. With a pair of feet anxiously waiting outside the bathroom door for access to the stall, I use two diapers to wipe what I could from the table, trashed the changing pad and closed up the table. Its not as I found it, but unless the person behind me is a mother waiting to change her own child, its safe for at least as long as it would take me to tip off a cleaning person to the issue (anonymously from my cellphone, of course)
I emerge from the stall 15 min later and rush out of the door. I apologize to Roman’s play date about how busy I am and flee the scene with a clean baby, a wrinkled sweater and a guilty conscious. How could I leave like that, knowing someone else’s child could be headed there? Well, you’ll be happy to know that, as I was walking out, someone was emerging from the bathroom and requesting a staff person to clean up what they could smell but obviously not see. I felt terrible about not owning up to my actions, but convinced myself 
that any new mother would understand. And with the cleaning crew already rectifying the situation, there was no one to tell. So I left content to speak no evil while my stinky monster slept peacefully in the backseat, at least 3 pounds lighter.
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1 comment:
Whatever. I'm sure it smelled plenty evil in there... Who needs Ortho-tricyclen when they can read this blog?
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